


Into The Living Sea Of Waking Dreams

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, season 3 disregarded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 64,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1704347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Choices could alter the course of our lives; Mycroft Holmes was about to learn this in a way no one ever had before. AU, Post-Reunion. Written before season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a part of his work Mycroft never had much affection, but which was nonetheless necessary.

Even though he would never understand why the Government insisted on conducting strange experiments and hoping that someday something useful would come out of them. He was still trying to get them to understand that until now nothing had because nothing could – take Baskerville for example. He simply couldn't imagine a use for glowing rabbits, no matter how many times Doctor Stapleton was granted more funding.

Sherlock would enjoy checking the different labs, hidden all over the land (for all the high security, Baskerville was too obvious, really; if they conducted all the experiments people believed they did, nobody would know where they were, or that they even existed), visiting them, making sure everything was right. Mycroft did not.

First of all, he had to leave London for almost a whole week – he visited the labs a long way from the capital first and slowly made his way back to the city. Then he had to look at science equipment he knew everything about but didn't really care for – Sherlock would have had the time of his life, no doubt, and he would gladly have allowed his little brother to do it for him, but he wasn't responsible. Not even with John Watson beside him; the good doctor had always made clear where his loyalties lay, and he would probably turn a blind eye if Sherlock wanted to annoy his older brother by playing around or stealing something.

The one good thing that could be said about the week was that it was almost over now; only the lab in London (which he would never allow Sherlock to know about) remained, and then he could happily forget about all the money being thrown away on useless science for another year.

Yes, Sherlock would definitely like it here, he mused while being shown around the facility yet again, appearing interested even though he wasn't. It was a pity they weren't as close as they once had been.

Their relationship had changed for the better, though – after Sherlock had returned. Of the three years he'd been gone, Mycroft had known for two that his brother was alive. And he didn't care to remember the year he'd spent grieving and illogically wishing that everything could have turned out differently.

He knew of course that telling Moriarty about Sherlock's life had been the only way to get him to talk, that he'd had no other choice. And yet –

If their relationship hadn't been so complicated, he could have warned his brother himself, instead of telling John to look after him. He and Sherlock could have made sure Moriarty never saw the light of day again.

But it could never have happened that way. Not since he had driven away from an eleven year old Sherlock to go to university, leaving him with an indifferent mother and a father whose ideas of discipline seemed to come from another century. He had told himself it was the right thing to do, that Sherlock needed to learn to cope on his own. He had been distancing himself from his brother for quite some time by this point, to prepare him for their separation, anyhow; it would do him no harm.

Now he was convinced that those lonely years were what had turned Sherlock into who he was now, and that he never would see the small happy boy again, pretending to be a pirate and demanding Mycroft tell him everything he knew about ships and the sea.

He didn't know whether Sherlock still remembered, or if he had long ago deleted all of those memories. It didn't matter anyway.

At least his brother spoke to him now from time to time without insulting him about his weight or asking him to leave every two minutes.

Not that it changed anything. All his actions had been justified. There was no reason to think about the past.

It was this annoying tour that had made him so sentimental; with Anthea looking after the office, he really didn't have much to do but nod and pretend he listened and think.

He decided to make an effort to actually listen – even though he certainly would have preferred not to hear about attempts to produce energy through cucumbers. But Doctor Trevelyan was polite enough, and showed an enthusiasm for his work that reminded him of his brother, so he listened carefully as the scientist, getting more excited by the moment, brought him to a room deep in the lab to see the "highlight" (as he put it) of the tour.

"I don't think you have been shown this before – we decided to keep it quiet until we succeeded in operating it" he announced and opened the door.

Mycroft looked at a big round metallic machine, standing on a small pedestal, shining in the neon light. It looked a little bit like a portal. In the middle, there was a square field made from some other metal, and he suspected that whoever operated the machine was supposed to put his hand there.

"This" Doctor Trevelyan said with the air of a proud father, "is the Choice Portal".

Mycroft raised an eyebrow; he couldn't help it. Trevelyan shrugged and smiled.

"I know, but we wanted to call it something different than TIHLX379 – its official name. Plus, it fits."

"What does it do?" Mycroft asked, now genuinely curious. While he didn't have the time to keep informed about all the experiments Trevelyan supervised, he knew that the man was one of the best scientists in the UK, if not the world, and he certainly looked excited. Whatever the machine did, it must be something interesting.

"This machine" Trevelyan elaborated, "is based on the principle of free will".

Mycroft waited for him to explain; the scientist certainly loved to be dramatic, but not even he could completely escape that criticism.

"Every choice we make can change the course of our lives, would you agree?" Trevelyan asked.

Mycroft nodded; he had seen important negotiations abandoned because someone decided to wear the wrong tie that day.

"And the thing is that no one can say for sure what would have happened if we had made another choice at a certain point..."

Mycroft nodded again, wishing Trevelyan would come to the point.

"So" the scientist announced proudly, "This machine will show you".

Mycroft blinked. "I am sorry – you are telling me that a simple machine is able to calculate how things would have turned out if we had, figuratively speaking, taken another path?"

Trevelyan nodded excitedly before replying, "There is no "simple" about it. We have been working on this machine for almost ten years."

Mycroft decided not to answer – he was once again thinking about the funds for this project – and asked, "And, please, I hope you don't mind me asking – how"

"How could it help us to see what could have happened, but didn't?" Trevelyan interrupted him. "This, Mr. Holmes, is only the beginning. We figured it would be easier to start with the past – looking back needs less energy than looking forward".

"Are you saying" Mycroft inquired, incredulously, "That you plan to make people see the future?"

"Not "the" future, Mr. Holmes. A future. A possible future. Think about the advantages – to be able to see what our choices could lead to."

That made sense to Mycroft, especially considering how near-sighted some politicians could be. However, showing anyone the past – or rather, as Doctor Trevelyan would undoubtedly say, "a past" couldn't lead to anything. And that they would succeed in making the machine show somebody a version of the future was by no means certain.

Trevelyan seemed to realize what he was thinking and ventured, "Would you like to try it?"

Mycroft looked at the enthusiastic scientist and realized that he wouldn't take no for an answer.

He sighed and stepped up to the portal.

"So, what do I do?"

"You concentrate on a choice you have made in your life – it has to be a choice you feel strongly about, though, we haven't quite figured out yet how to make appear the little choices" of course they hadn't, Mycroft thought "and you put your hand on the square. You should see what had happened if you had made a different choice in your head – almost like a movie".

Mycroft sighed again. "And how long will this take?"

"Normally the test subjects are able to see a different life in less than five minutes, Mr. Holmes – the mind is quicker than you think". Trevelyan sounded delighted to have another "subject" and Mycroft, deciding to get it over with, put his hand on the square and thought about not telling Moriarty about Sherlock's life.

Nothing happened.

"Another choice" Trevelyan said, "think of something different. The memory wasn't strong enough".

There was only one memory, one choice Mycroft could think of, one he didn't care to remember, but if it got him out of here soon...

" _Mycroft, please stay – or take me with you!" the eleven year old begged._

" _Sherlock, don't be stupid" Mycroft explained, patiently, "I have to go to my lectures, I can't – "_

" _I would stay in your flat all day, I promise!" Sherlock looked at him with pleading yes. "Don't leave me here, not with –"_

" _Sherlock, they are our parents. You will stay here, and you will try to be a good boy, you hear?" Mycroft's voice brooked no argument, and Sherlock, realizing that he couldn't go, looked down at the floor and nodded._

_His eyes followed his brother, though, as he walked over to the limousine and was driven to the train station._

_Mycroft didn't turn around as the limousine drove away; he knew it was best for Sherlock._

"See?" Trevelyan exclaimed, as a few lights on the machine began to blink.

"The other choice should show up any moment now".

Mycroft wanted to shake his head when suddenly something that hadn't happened entered his head.

_He couldn't help himself; he had to turn around._

_What he saw was Sherlock, looking after the car with sad eyes, already starting to build a wall between himself and the world._

" _Stop!" he cried to the driver, who, while looking confused, did as he was told._

_Mycroft jumped out and walked back. When he reached Sherlock, he kneeled down and looked into his brother's eyes. "When I take you with me, you'll behave? No dead animals in the flat? No violin playing in the middle of the night?"_

" _I swear!" Sherlock exclaimed happily, and Mycroft nodded, taking him with him to the limousine. Their parents would return from the city in the evening; by this time, Sherlock would be safe and sound in his flat._

Mycroft blinked, wondering what would come now, how this would have affected their lives, when suddenly, the lights on the machine started blinking more and more quickly and he wanted to draw his hand back instinctively, but found he couldn't.

He thought he heard Trevelyan exclaim something, then there was an explosion, and everything turned black.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Mycroft didn't know how long he'd been unconscious; he only knew that he suddenly woke up on the floor, the concerned face of Doctor Trevelyan above him.

For a moment, he was confused, then he remembered. The machine had malfunctioned. He had lost consciousness because of it. Maybe he could convince the government now that the research was simply a waste of money.

He swallowed and found his voice.

"How long?" He trusted that Trevelyan would be able to tell what he wanted to know.

"Almost ten minutes, Mycroft". He registered the unwanted familiarity – only Sherlock, John (if he wanted to prove a point) and DI Lestrade (no, he was supposed to call him Greg by now) ever used his first name – but didn't really care at this point.

"I don't know what happened – the machine has never done this before. Maybe your emotions were too strong, then again, I suppose you do have an extraordinary brain..."

Mycroft sighed, realizing that, although he certainly would prefer silence, he wouldn't get it anytime soon. He tried to sit up – despite Trevelyan's protests – and succeeded, taking a deep breath, relieved to find his faithful umbrella (apparently he had still held it in his left hand while using his right to conduct the experiment) at his side.

Trevelyan looked him over, almost panicking. "Mycroft? Can you hear me? Are you in any pain?"

Mycroft took his time to answer – it was Trevelyan who had persuaded him to try the machine, after all – and look around, gathering his thoughts.

He frowned.

He was sure that the wall had looked slightly less yellow before his... experience. Then again, he had just had several volts run through him; a slight disorientation was only to be expected.

As was Trevelyan's panic, considering he was the one responsible for Mycroft trying out the machine in the first place.

He stared at the scientist and frowned; something, although he couldn't out his finger on it, seemed different about him.

"Mycroft? Is everything alright? Should I call Sherlock?"

The older Holmes was taken aback by the question; why should Trevelyan think about calling his brother? How did he even know who his brother was? He consoled himself with the knowledge that Trevelyan had probably heard about Sherlock because of the media coverage of his death and return; he should have thought about it before. That didn't explain why he wanted to call Sherlock – then, again, maybe he figured it was the normal thing to do. After all, Mycroft had just had an accident.

He stood up, leaning on his umbrella. "No, thank you, Doctor Trevelyan. I think I'll just leave".

"Are you sure, Mycroft?" Again the scientist had used his first name, and again he looked at Mycroft in a way that was entirely too familiar. He simply shrugged off the concern, assured Trevelyan that he was alright and left the scientist trying to figure out what had gone wrong.

His driver seemed to be concerned too – rather strange, considering he never encouraged familiarity between himself and the staff – but simply asked where he wanted to go.

At first, he had thought about going back to the office; then he realized he was too weak, much as he hated to admit it. His knees still felt rather wobbly, and he had a difficult time just getting into the limousine. Son he gave up and decided to go home; Anthea wasn't really expecting him anyway – these inspections could get rather long – and if a crisis occurred she could always contact him.

He didn't pay attention to London flying by the car's windows; his head was pounding and he left like he'd just run a marathon. Maybe it would at least get him out of this assignment next year. He certainly could argue now that he didn't want to go back to a place where he'd almost been electrocuted.

The driver insisted on helping him out of the limousine, asked if he needed anything else, and only let him enter the house alone after he'd glared at him and ordered him to leave.

He sighed relieved when he entered his mansion and leaned against the door. It would certainly be best to take things easy for this afternoon; a bit of brandy, two or three files...

Suddenly he looked at the hall and frowned. Something wasn't right.

It was his house, there was no doubt about it, and his umbrella stand stood here it always had, but...

When had he had another window installed?

He shook his head; he didn't make sense; he had lived in this house for over twenty years – he'd moved in shortly after he'd earned his degree in politics – and there had always been just one window, and a rather small one at that, in the hall. It had been a bit dim, that was true, but in many ways, he preferred twilight to the blinding light of day. Things took different shapes in twilight, people let their masks drop, and information was easier obtained. And, of course, even after he had obtained it, he had never seen the need to drag everything into the light.

So he'd always felt comfortable with his dim entrance hall, and now –

Now, just opposite his small window, there was a much bigger one, letting in the light of the mid-afternoon. He shook his head again; he closed his eyes; the window was still there.

He couldn't deny that it made the hall seem – friendlier, more inviting. But then, he had never cared for that.

But that was beside the point. Why would a window that had no business to be there suddenly appear out of nowhere? It was impossible. The shock must have done more to his mind than he'd thought, and certainly more than he cared to admit.

Therefore, instead of thinking any more about it, he made his way to his dining room, deciding on the way to drink a brandy first and worry about the window later.

Only to stop in the door and stare at the room.

Apparently the hall wasn't the only thing to have changed.

The furniture of the dining room was of a lighter wood than it had been before, and the curtains permitted more light to filter through too.

Before he knew what he was doing, he felt the wood of one of the chairs under his hand, and realized he had blindly walked into the room, feeling the need to reassure himself that what he saw was true.

He sat down and put his head in his hands. What was going on? Had Sherlock – who was the only one who could get into his house without being noticed, he had a top-notch security system – decided to play a prank on him? What for? The only other person who could have done it, if she put her mind to it, was Anthea, and she knew his taste. She wouldn't risk her job by doing something like this.

And even a prank certainly didn't explain the appearance of a window.

Aside from the fact that no one could have done all this in the few hours since he'd left the house to visit the lab this morning.

God, he needed brandy.

Thankfully it was still where he'd always kept it – that is, to the right of the first window in the dining room, the cabinet had, of course, also changed – and sat down, staring at the much-too-light table. He let his gaze wander across the room.

What had happened? And –

Had it happened to the rest of the house too?

There was only one way to find out, so he stood up, refilled his glass – he would probably need it – and set out to investigate.

Only to find that every room had changed. All of them were furnished differently; all of them looked lighter; all of them looked – comfortable, for lack of a better word. He had never needed or wanted much comfort, not even in his home, and he didn't understand why anyone would decide he should have it now.

The biggest surprise downstairs, even counting the window in the hall and the dining room, was the living room – not because it, too, looked too comfortable for Mycroft's taste, but because, on the fireplace, there stood pictures of him and Sherlock when they were younger –

And he could have sworn that Sherlock must at least be fourteen years old on one of the pictures. Of course, that was impossible – by this time, his brother had refused to let their picture be taken.

Also, the background seemed to –

Sherlock had certainly never been in the flat he'd lived in during his studies. It was utterly impossible.

Someone was playing a trick on him, and Mycroft felt himself finally getting angry. He downed his brandy and went upstairs to check the other rooms.

The same light furniture, but he had come to expect that. What surprised him, though, just as he had come to the conclusion that nothing could surprise him anymore, were his and Sherlock's bedrooms.

It wasn't exactly "Sherlock's bedroom" – he had spent a few months there after his detox at the age of twenty-nine, Mycroft had wanted to keep an even closer eye on him than usual, until he was sure that he could stay clean. Naturally, he had resented both his brother's insistence and the room. Therefore, he had resisted all Mycroft's attempts to make him comfortable, preferring a narrow bed and only a desk –

And now the room not only had a very comfortably-looking bed and a much nicer looking desk in it, but a violin stand – with Sherlock's violin on it, no less – several bookstands, a poster of the periodic table on the wall and another picture of the two brothers as children on the nightstand.

Mycroft quickly made his way to his bedroom, just next door to Sherlock's, and found it looked much like his brother's – except that there were more books dedicated to politics than to chemistry, but that was just to be expected. At least he recognized the picture on the nightstand. It had always been there – it had been taken the summer before he left for university and he had kept it in a drawer in the living room.

It just didn't make any sense. Why would Sherlock bring his violin to Mycroft's house? Why would anyone do any of this?

Mycroft was confused, and it was neither a feeling he was used to nor one he cared for.

He heard someone unlock the front door and frowned. No one had the keys to the mansion, not even Anthea.

Quickly checking his bedroom, he was relieved to find the gun he had hidden in a bedpost still where it was supposed to be. As quietly as possible, he made his way towards the stairs –

Only to hear Sherlock's voice call "Mycroft? Mycroft? Are you there? I tried calling, but you didn't answer."

As if this day hadn't held enough surprises already. Sherlock sounded – concerned? About him? No, it was impossible. Even if Sherlock should feel concern when it came to Mycroft – which was doubtful – he wouldn't show it, not like this. At least he could leave the gun in the hallway. On the way down he pulled out his phone – seven missed calls, all from Sherlock. He had forgotten to change the settings after he'd left the lab.

"I must have – " he raised his eyes as he reached the bottom of the stairs and looked up, trailing off. Sherlock was standing in front of him, mustering him with obvious concern in his eyes –

Wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt and having just hung up his jacket.

Mycroft had to swallow and his brother was immediately at his side.

"Mycroft? I knew you wouldn't admit anything was the matter, I immediately came here when you wouldn't answer, thank God Percy called me – "

"Percy?" Mycroft asked, even more confused than before, and Sherlock rolled his eyes good-naturedly (good-naturedly? That was certainly a word he had never associated with his brother.

"Trevelyan, Mycroft. We studied together, remember?"

No, they hadn't. Sherlock had left university without a degree – true, he had studied chemistry for half a year, but Mycroft would have known if he had met Trevelyan during his time there.

He wanted to open his mouth, to protest, but Sherlock chose this moment to say, "Come on. You need something to eat, and I'm hungry as well. I'll just make a quick snack, and you can tell me what happened".

Then he all but dragged a decidedly confused Mycroft into the dining room.


	3. Chapter 3

It almost seemed like a dream, him sitting in the dining room while Sherlock made a late lunch in the kitchen, all the while talking how Percy had called him and he had been worried and therefore he had come to check on his brother.

All the while he sipped the brandy Sherlock had put before him and tried to make sense of all this.

There had been an accident in the lab.

Doctor Trevelyan – or "Percy" as Sherlock insisted on calling him – had been overly concerned for his well-being. The furniture in his house had changed. Sherlock had shown up, in casual, demanding what had happened to him and why he hadn't answered his phone.

None of it made sense.

No one would dare change the furniture in his house; Doctor Trevelyan, who had just met him, would never allow such familiarity; and Sherlock –

Sherlock would never cook him "a very late lunch". He would never be so concerned about him. He would never make sure his brother was comfortable, lay plates in the dining room, tell him about his day...

And this was when things got really complicated.

When Sherlock had dragged Mycroft into the dining room, forced him into a chair, put the glass of brandy in his hands, the older Holmes had been deducing his younger brother.

Judging from the slight smell of chemicals on his clothes, he had either come from St. Bart's or from his flat. . There were no other options.

But he told an entirely different story.

Apparently he had been at a well-known chemical laboratory in the north of town, experimenting on several formulas they had paid him to find; he was obviously happy, convinced that he'd finally found the missing ingredient, but had come "home" – and it was undoubtedly strange to hear him refer to Mycroft's house in this way – as soon as "Percy" had let him know that something had gone wrong and Mycroft had lost consciousness.

Evidently, it was the most natural thing in the world to him to check up on his brother.

So Mycroft sat there, listening to his rambling, trying to make sense of everything, until Sherlock came out of the kitchen with two plates and a big bowl of pasta, demanding Mycroft eat enough to "get his strength back". Strangely enough (or not so strange, considering what else he had to deal with), he found his brother to be a good cook.

He ate almost all to pacify this strange domestic version of his brother before asking, without looking up, "Where's John?"

The answer, even though he had suspected it almost subconsciously, made him glad to be sitting down.

Sherlock (even though he didn't look up, he could tell) looked at him with blank eyes, asking "Who's John?"

Mycroft took a deep breath and replied, using the same calm tone he used in discussions with foreign diplomats, ""Doctor John Watson. The ex-army doctor you share a flat with".

Sherlock laughed, but his brother could tell it was forced.

"Mycroft" he then explained, slowly as one would to a child, "you know I never had a flatmate – well, if we don't count you". He chuckled before becoming serious again. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you couldn't afford one on your own" Mycroft replied, aware how weird this must sound to a Sherlock who obviously spent most of his time here, if he didn't live here full-time.

Sherlock snorted. "And you couldn't help me out? Sure." He shook his head. "Mycroft, the experiment gave you and electrical shock, and it's obviously still messing with your perception of reality. Why don't we go to the living room and you can tell me what exactly happened?"

Knowing there was nothing else to do, Mycroft acquiesced and followed Sherlock into the living room.

His brother insisted on him sitting down on the sofa and getting "comfortable" before their talk, and Mycroft looked at him and asked himself what would happen if he ever told the Sherlock he remembered what had happened. He would probably laugh and then start playing his violin.

"So" the Sherlock now with him said, sitting down opposite him and looking at him in a way that calmed him, because he was deducing him – even if he probably didn't know he was doing it.

"Tell me about Percy's experiment. I know what it's supposed to do, of course – it's his favourite subject. I can barely get him to talk about anything else".

Mycroft nodded and started, unsure what Sherlock would think.

"I did what he told me – put my hand on the square and think about a choice I made. First I thought about – something else" he decided not to mention Moriarty, not until he knew which role the consulting criminal played in this strange world "and it didn't work."

Sherlock nodded as if that made sense to him and it most likely did. "It's a problem Percy has been working on for some time – it only works when you feel very passionately about the choice. He's desperate to fix it. He even asked me for help, and I have a few theories, but it's not really my area."

"Then I thought about – " Mycroft started again, then looked at Sherlock, sitting in front of him, looking at him with concerned eyes, dressed in jeans, utterly comfortable in his presence. And then, for the first time in a long time, he found he simply couldn't go on talking. But maybe that wasn't surprising. He and Sherlock had never talked about the day Mycroft had left him behind; he wasn't even sure his brother still remembered. Maybe he had deleted it. There were quite enough reasons for Sherlock to resent him even without that first one, he thought bitterly.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. "Go on. Please. Tell me what happened. I can't help you otherwise".

He put his hands in front of his mouth in the prayer position he had decided to adopt from his brother when he was seven years old, and this made Mycroft decided he had to tell him.

"The day I left for university".

"Ah". Sherlock's eyes softened, and he smiled as if thinking about a fond memory. "You wanted to see what would have happened if you hadn't taken me with you?"

"No, I – " Mycroft stopped again when he realized what Sherlock had said.

"Sherlock" he said slowly, "I didn't take you with me. I left you there."

"Don't be ridiculous" Sherlock huffed, indignantly. "You would never leave me behind."

Mycroft swallowed. His brother had never expressed such faith in him – maybe when they were children, but not since that day. And he certainly would never do it now. He didn't believe in Mycroft. Sometimes the older Holmes even thought Sherlock didn't trust him, and who could blame him.

But, he suddenly realized, Sherlock telling him that he had taken him with him all those years ago might be a clue to what was going on.

Was he still at the machine? Maybe it hadn't malfunctioned at all, maybe it was only showing him what he had wanted to see. Dr. Trevelyan had said that it could show you a whole life in a few minutes, and perhaps that was why he had already spent – he looked at his watch – one and a half hours in this strange world.

Sherlock, apparently sensing what he was about say, shook his head.

"No, Mycroft. It wouldn't work like that – "

"Why not?" he interrupted him. "After all, the machine is supposed to show me a different version of reality – "

"Yes, but you should be aware that you are standing in front of the machine" Sherlock explained, patiently. "You should still feel that your hand rested on the square. Also, it should have started to show you your life from the choice on. Did it?"

"No" Mycroft admitted. "I just woke up in Trevelyan's lab".

Sherlock shook his head. "Percy should be glad he's my friend."

That casual mention of the word "friend" – a word Sherlock had always avoided, a word he had only used when it came to John – reminded Mycroft of the ex-army doctor.

"Sherlock, about John Watson..." he said, but his brother waved a hand.

"Mycroft, we can worry about him later. If you're still curious, I am sure you can check his service records and whatever there is to know about him – you do occupy a "minor position in the British Government" after all". His eyes twinkled mischievously in an utterly unlike-Sherlock manner.

Then he grew serious again. "But" he announced, "first we have to deal with your confusion."

Mycroft wanted to protest, but he knew it was pointless. This Sherlock wouldn't take no for an answer – just like the one he remembered. At least some things hadn't changed.

"So, tell me what you think happened when you left for university" Sherlock added.

And Mycroft told him, because there was nothing else to do. He told him everything – how he'd left, despite Sherlock's pleas. How they hadn't really been in contact during his studied. How he'd noticed that Sherlock was slipping into drugs when his little brother was seventeen, but hadn't acted the way he should have, instead simply chastising him and going back to London. How Sherlock had started to study chemistry, but dropped out because he had started taking cocaine. All the lost years in which his brother had been taking drugs, showing up now and then to demand money, then dropping off his radar again, and Mycroft had done nothing – except buy him a plane ticket to Florida to get him away from his suppliers. And, he admitted, feeling ashamed, so that he wouldn't have to worry about him for a while. How he'd at least met Mrs. Hudson there and decided that he wanted to solve crimes for a living. How he'd met DI Lestrade, who'd made him detox first, and how Mycroft had him living in his house for a few months after he got clean. How he'd met John and moved into 221B.

It was then that he stopped, because he somehow couldn't bring himself to tell his little brother about his other betrayal; plus he figured he'd already told him enough.

It was easier than he would have expected, telling Sherlock all of this; maybe because he wasn't his brother, not really.

Sherlock listened attentively, frowning now and then. At the end, he shook his head.

"My..."

He was startled at the nickname Sherlock hadn't used for over thirty years now; he had only called him that when he had been very little and had had problems pronouncing his name.

"My" Sherlock repeated, "You must see that what you are saying is ridiculous. You – "

"Yes, Sherlock, I would" Mycroft said tiredly, sensing that his brother was about to protest he would never leave him behind again. "I did. I'm sorry."

"Don't be" Sherlock said, looking at him worriedly. Then he suggested, "Why don't you go upstairs and lie down a bit? Things will look better after you have rested".

They wouldn't, but there was no use arguing with him. He was curious what life his brother had led after he'd taken him with him, but it was obvious Sherlock wanted him to get some rest and wouldn't answer any questions. Especially since he seemed convinced that Mycroft would remember how everything had truly happened soon.

So he sighed and nodded, standing up and making his way upstairs, Sherlock promising he would call Percy and "discuss things with him".

At least now he could look up John Watson without Sherlock protesting it was useless.

And his position as the British Government seemed unaltered, thank God.

He hesitated for a moment before taking out his laptop, his eyes lingering on the picture of Sherlock and him on the nightstand. After all, until now he had found this world to be rather... pleasant, for lack of a better word. Sherlock concerned about him, Sherlock believing in him, Sherlock trusting him...

He shook himself; Sherlock, the Sherlock he remembered, would never forgive him if he didn't check up on John.

As it turned out, he didn't have much checking to do.

Because the first document he laid his eyes on was simply labelled –

_Death Certificate_

_Doctor John Hamish Watson_

_Died: July 23, 2010_

_Cause of death: Suicide_


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft stared at the certificate on his screen, not knowing neither caring how much time had passed since he had learned that John Watson didn't exist in this world anymore, because –

John Watson had taken his own life.

His relationship with the doctor had always been rather... complicated, and even more so since Sherlock's fake suicide. John Watson had never understood how he could have told Moriarty about Sherlock's life, and how could he blame him, who had always looked after his sister, even when she had called him drunk in the middle of the night.

And the man had looked after his little brother in a way Mycroft never could have, had made sure Sherlock ate and slept, had tended to his wounds, had mourned him for three years and yet welcomed him back into his life –

And now that man was gone.

No, not "now"; Sherlock didn't know who John Watson was. Sherlock would never know what had passed him by.

Mycroft tried to breathe. He was used to people dying – leading a nation and the Secret Service, how could he not be? And yet – the knowledge of John's loss, while realizing that his brother wouldn't care, would just look at him with this uncomprehending eyes again, probably ask, "Who?" was almost too much to bear.

It wasn't a surprise on some level, he suddenly realized. On the contrary; he remembered looking at John's record and the transcript of his therapy sessions for the first time, feeling concerned because his brother had obviously chosen an unstable flatmate, considering this man suicidal because he couldn't live without the war –

Sherlock had been his new war, his new purpose, but Sherlock hadn't appeared, because Sherlock hadn't looked for a flatmate. Sherlock had been living with him, apparently, and had had no reason to search for a flatmate. Therefore he had never told Mike Stamford (had most likely never met Mike Stamford) that he was in need of one, and the teacher had never introduced him and John...

Almost as if he was still standing in front of the machine, watching a life he had never known, he saw what these last months must have been like for John Watson. Day after day, always the same, hoping that today would be the day everything c hanged, always being disappointed, then finally, over time, giving up, losing all hope, until one evening he took out the gun in his drawer, put it in his mouth, and, without a single feeling of regret, without knowing that, in another life, he would have been the best friend of the world's only consulting detective, simply content to bid goodbye to this world that had taken everything from him and given him nothing in return, pulled the trigger. His body lying there, because there was nobody to come for him, nobody to look for him, for several days, maybe weeks, until finally his landlord decided to take a look because other tenants had complained about the smell. And then the funeral, with no one behind the casket but his sister (as likely drunk as not) and just possibly Mike Stamford, who had remembered that they had been friends once...

Mycroft swallowed and pulled himself together. He understood why he was thus affected, of course; John Watson had become a constant in his life too, just as he had become Sherlock's best friend and flatmate and colleague. He had become one of the few people Mycroft trusted.

And yet, somehow, until this moment, while acknowledging that he was thankful to John Watson and would be sorry to see anything happen to him, Mycroft had never realized that the doctor had come to mean something to him too. Maybe even something like a friend, despite the mistrust and anger hanging between them, although he might be the only person in the UK to have less friends than Sherlock Holmes.

In another reality, that was. Here, John was dead and Sherlock was not only unaware, but –

"I should have known you wouldn't rest" his brother's voice interrupted his musings. He looked up from his laptop. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't heard the door open. Sherlock stood in the doorway, shaking his head at him, although not without a certain exasperated fondness.

"I had to check something" Mycroft mumbled, closing the laptop.

Sherlock strode over to the bed, sitting down beside his brother.

"This – John Watson, I presume?"

Mycroft nodded, lost for words. He was aware that the news of John Watson's suicide wouldn't hurt Sherlock, and he should have been relieved, but instead, he dreaded his reaction. He didn't want to look into those eyes and see that it didn't mean anything to him. And yet, he already knew he would tell him, knew he would have to, knew he needed to see with his own eyes that Sherlock didn't care.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted, and Mycroft swallowed again.

"He's – dead. He committed suicide a few years ago".

"I'm sorry" Sherlock replied, and Mycroft was, not for the first time that day, glad to be sitting down. Seeing Sherlock indifferent was worse than imagining him indifferent.

Although – no, that wasn't right. His brother wasn't wholly indifferent. He was sorry for Mycroft's loss. He could have laughed at the irony.

Sherlock was sorry because he believed that John Watson had meant something to Mycroft. And, in a way, he had. Just not as much as the ex-army doctor meant – should have meant – to Sherlock. But Sherlock only knew him from Mycroft's tale of the life he hadn't lived. He had no other connection with him.

"So you knew him rather well then – he was, after all, my flatmate" Sherlock added, looking at Mycroft questioningly, and the older Holmes nodded.

Then, Mycroft decided he would have to pull himself together. This was not his reality, this wasn't his life; John wasn't really dead, he told himself. John was safe with Sherlock at Baker Street.

"Tell me about your life" he demanded and, when Sherlock shot him a confused look, clarified, "our lives. After I took you with me".

Sherlock bit his lip, and Mycroft could easily tell what he was thinking; that telling him about it, instead of waiting for him to remember, might harm his "healing process". But he knew exactly what to say. He doubted it would have worked with the brother he remembered – yet, considering what he had learned about this version of Sherlock so far...

"Please" he added.

Sherlock stared down at the bed, then he nodded slowly, and Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief.

His brother looked up and met his eyes. He began after taking a deep breath.

"When I was eleven – from your story, I understand that our memories are the same before this point – you took me with you. I was scared when you drove off – scared to be left with our father. We both know Mummy didn't really count, at least not until she got older and wasn't so busy socializing anymore. And father was..." he trailed off, and Mycroft understood. He winced.

"But you took me with you" Sherlock hastened to add. "You took me with you and installed me in your flat and found me a school in London. When Father found out, he was furious. He came to your flat and wanted to take me back, but you refused". He smiled. "You promised I wouldn't have to go back, and I didn't. When you had finished your studied, you bought this house – not even Father could keep you from grandfather's trust fond – and we have been living here ever since. There was simply no reason for me to move out."

"And you – finished your degree?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. First I studied chemistry – "

"First?"

"Yes, and then physics."

Mycroft nodded and stated, "So you became a scientist".

"Yes – and" Sherlock smirked "since I published a few articles about the work ethics of scientist, you always called me a "part-time philosopher"".

Mycroft remembered a conversation he had held with a dead man after the Adler case and had to admit this reality at least followed some rules. The thought of John brought the thoughts he'd been fighting off for a few minutes now back to the surface, so he asked, even though he would rather not, "And you never took drugs?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And let you catch me at it? Why would I do something stupid like that?"

"Because you were bored?" Mycroft suggested before he could stop himself, and Sherlock actually giggled at that.

"Bored? With you around? I assure you, brother, you always kept me well-occupied."

"Of course I did" Mycroft mumbled, and only now his gaze fell on Sherlock's arms. The electric shock and the strange environment had kept him from employing his observatory skills. But now, when he was finally starting to take everything in –

Sherlock never wore short-sleeved shirts, and for a good reason. Injection had been his favourite method of taking drugs, so his arms weren't exactly fit to be shown –

Or rather, they wouldn't have been, because there were no needle marks there now. Before he knew what he was doing, Mycroft had reached out and touched Sherlock's right arm.

His brother was obviously convinced this was a good thing, for he beamed.

"See? I never took any drugs."

Mycroft nodded, then swallowed. He wished he could be as relieved as he should be, because, somehow, just looking at Sherlock, this reality wasn't bad. After all, his brother was a scientist, he had friends, he had never taken drugs –

But John Watson was dead, and Mycroft knew his Sherlock well enough to know this was simply inacceptable.

He dropped his hand, and Sherlock sighed. Then he said, "I called Percy while you were" he looked over at the laptop "resting. He has still no idea what happened. I'm going to go over there tomorrow and check".

Mycroft nodded; Sherlock should go to the lab, so he would have time to check up on Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade. He had to know how they were faring in this reality.

Suddenly, Sherlock looked rather guilty and Mycroft knew exactly what he was about to say. "I also called – "

"I don't need a psychiatrist" he interrupted him. Sherlock looked at him with pleading eyes. "The Professor said he would be here tomorrow evening – if you should remember by this time, I can call him and tell him not to bother".

""The Professor?"" Mycroft asked, deciding it would be useless to protest that there was nothing to remember; Sherlock would never believe him.

Sherlock nodded, trying not to let show that he was slightly hurt by Mycroft's ignorance – another expression he had never seen on his face.

"Yes. He's my best friend. We met when we were twelve".

"And you call him "Professor" because – "

"Because he managed to become Professor at the age of twenty-nine" Sherlock replied, simply. "It's something like a joke."

Mycroft nodded, because he couldn't think of another reaction. Sherlock seemed to believe that this was quite enough information, for he asked, "So – how about dinner?"

"Dinner? Sherlock, we just ate barely two hours ago."

His brother shrugged. "I get hungry when I'm concerned".

Now this was certainly something he would never have expected to hear from his brother. Mycroft swallowed and then said, "No, thank you, not for me. I'll call it an early night".

It was barely seven, but he needed to check his life, make sure his position was really unchanged, that Anthea still worked for him and Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade were still alive and well.

Sherlock's face brightened. "Good". He stood up; Mycroft did as well, unsure what to do or say now. A simple "Good night" seemed so odd.

And then Sherlock hugged him. He froze. Sherlock had never hugged him, not even when he had returned from the dead.

His brother pulled back, again unsuccessfully trying to mask the pain in his eyes and said, "Rest well."

"Thank you" he replied, not knowing what to do.

Sherlock looked at him again and then left.

Mycroft sat down on the bed, sighed and pulled the laptop towards him. He had a lot of work to do.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft decided to make sure his position was truly unaltered – he might have been able to find John Watson's death certificate, but that didn't automatically mean he was as influential as he'd always best – and whether or not he had employed Anthea all those years ago.

As it turned out, he was still, as his Sherlock would have put it, "the British Government"; although he seemed to have encouraged more funding for research than usual. But, if Sherlock was a scientist, this was easily explained – he would simply have made sure that his brother's (useful, he didn't doubt that) plans came to fruition.

Anthea was still his PA, apparently, at least she still sent him mails at regular intervals. She called him by his first name instead of "sir"; all in all, she seemed to be on more familiar terms with him as well, and all he could do was wonder how Sherlock being in his life all these years could have done this.

So his little brother had lived with him. Necessarily, he had to have been at his flat more than he remembered to look after him. He always would have had to look after his education. He would have been the one Sherlock looked up to, to help him with his homework, to tell him all about his problems, to be there for him. Therefore, at least according to what this Sherlock had told him, and based on the attitudes of Doctor Trevelyan and his driver, plus judging by the furniture in the mansion, Mycroft had developed a different persona as well.

As far as he could tell, he definitely preferred the day to the night; he and Sherlock were friends as well as brothers; he had made sure more money went into science, because his little brother had become a scientist; he never told Moriarty about Sherlock's life, because Sherlock was safe, was with him, where he belonged; he wasn't the Ice man Moriarty had believed him to be, but simply a big brother who had done the right thing and got a faithful companion for his troubles. He had got Sherlock because had shown concern in his wellbeing; because he has sure he had never taken drugs, because he had been there for him during his studies.

It was rather confusing and made sense at the same time.

In a way, it was all he had ever wished for, without admitting it, apart from the fact –

Apart from the fact that John had committed suicide.

And, Mycroft had to admit, going through the rather short list of people he had to check up on, all of his so-called friends, or acquaintances, had sprung from them being connected to Sherlock. He had shown up at 221B, he had had DI Lestrade and John kidnapped. And, somehow, over the years, they had become fixtures in his life as well. He could think of no other person, safe Anthea, who had shown the slightest concern for his wellbeing. Mrs. Hudson had stuffed him with biscuits and tea every time he came to 221B after Sherlock's fake suicide; DI Lestrade had told him exactly what he thought of him (apparently John had explained who had told Moriarty all about Sherlock why they were at a pub) and had allowed him nonetheless to kidnap him occasionally, always looking at him in a way that made him suspect that the DI was the one checking up on him, instead of the other way around.

Without Sherlock, he would have been a ghost.

Even in this reality, he suspected; after all, Sherlock's... friends (like Trevelyan) seemed only to be concerned about him because they were acquainted with his brother.

But now was not the time for sentimentalities. He had to look up the only friends he had – or rather, the only friends Sherlock had had, once upon another reality – and try to make sense of all this.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to still live in Baker Street – without her abusive husband, by the looks of it, and Mycroft was even more relieved than he'd thought he would be. Mrs. Hudson had been a grounding influence for his brother. She had been there for him when Mycroft had not. At least she was still alive.

DI Lestrade was doing as well as could be expected without a consulting detective at his sight, apparently. Naturally, he hadn't solved his cases as quickly. But that was only to be expected; this Sherlock didn't seem to be very interested in murders. If he hadn't been, he would never have wandered unto DI Lestrade's crime scene. So the Di would never have met Sherlock, would never have offered him a job.

Mycroft had always been adverse to legwork; there was nothing he couldn't accomplish without running around. His mind was all he needed to solve problems, to figure out the culprit, to figure out how to manipulate people to do exactly what he wanted them to.

And yet, he felt that he would have to do it like Sherlock this time, track down his friends and see with his own eyes what had become of them. Sometimes surveillance footage wasn't enough. And this time, he felt that simply looking up the information wouldn't be right. These were Sherlock's friends in a strange scenario; he owed it to him to see what had happened to them himself.

He was sure that the Sherlock he had met in this reality wouldn't be pleased about his idea; but then, Sherlock had said he would go to the lab tomorrow. He could certainly leave after him and come back before his brother.

With this thought and after several hours of research, he decided to try and get some rest. He didn't expect to sleep; there was simply no way his mind could –

And then Sherlock started playing the violin.

He wondered how Sherlock had guessed that he wasn't asleep (then again, this version seemed to know him rather well), but it didn't matter; all he knew was that Sherlock was playing music, and obviously for him, something he hadn't done ever since Mycroft left.

He lay in the bed and listened; it was one of his favourite pieces by Dvořák, and Sherlock was an even better player than he remembered. Then again, if he had lived with Mycroft he had probably practised more.

After a while of listening to his brother trying to soothe him, he fell asleep.

When he woke up the next morning, the first thing he saw when he opened his drawers were jeans and t-shirts; it seemed that not only Sherlock preferred casual wear in his – in their home. He shrugged and put on a suit – he had never liked wearing jeans, and he wouldn't start now – and made his way downstairs.

Sherlock was waiting for him with coffee – of course this version of his brother would know he preferred not to have breakfast – and turned his head away slightly when he came into the dining room, so Mycroft wouldn't see the disappointment in his eyes that he obviously still didn't remember.

He sat down, accepting the coffee. The silence stretched between them. Sherlock was looking over some lab results, Mycroft took out his phone, frowning. Surely Anthea should have asked where he was by now?

"I informed her yesterday that you had had an accident and wouldn't be in the office for a few days" Sherlock answered his unspoken question. "She as concerned, of course, but I told her I'd keep an eye on you".

Mycroft nodded, telling himself not to be surprised that his PA and his brother were on such good terms. He probably helped pick her.

Sherlock turned back to his results, and Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Thank you. For... last night".

It felt strange, thanking his brother. They rarely thanked one another, simply because they rarely did something for each other. And certainly not as – for lack of a better word – intimate things as playing him to sleep.

Sherlock shrugged. "You're welcome". Then, he added, so quietly that Mycroft almost couldn't hear him, "as always".

Mycroft didn't know what to say. Sherlock stood up abruptly and announced, "I'm going to meet Percy in the lab and take a look at the machine myself. There has to be a solution to our... problem".

Mycroft doubted it, but didn't say anything.

Sherlock looked at him. "Promise you'll stay here?"

"Of course" Mycroft answered, lying smoothly as always. As it turned out, this Sherlock knew him too well; his shoulders slumped and he sighed.

"Fine, but just be back tonight so you can meet – "

"The Professor, I know. I promise."

Sherlock nodded and left without another word, and Mycroft thought how difficult this must be for him, to suddenly live with a brother who didn't really know him, who was so different from the one he remembered. At least for him this whole situation was so strange that meeting a different Sherlock, while confusing, had almost been... normal. But Sherlock had come home to find a stranger when he expected the older brother who had taken him with his all those years ago.

Mycroft sighed and stood up. It couldn't be helped; this reality wasn't his reality and he couldn't pretend that it was. He could, however, while waiting for something to happen (preferably him waking up in Trevelyan's lab) check up on Sherlock's other friends.

He took his umbrella with him – one could never know – and left, having decided against calling a driver. He could very well take cabs for the day, and he didn't want anyone to know where he was going.

He quickly caught a cab and drove to 221B Baker Street. Really, it should have been enough to know that Mrs. Hudson still lived there, but he felt the need to see with his own eyes that she was alright nonetheless.

London hadn't changed much, if at all, at least he could say that looking out the window. True, it was difficult to see how his decision could have affected the topography of the city, but it was a comfort.

221B seemed to be unchanged as well, and Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Hudson was apparently doing just fine, most likely she had even found other lodgers...

Then he noticed several locks on the front door and frowned. Why would Mrs. Hudson have so many locks? Baker Street was hardly a centre of crime; even if she lived alone, she wouldn't be that concerned –

And then he saw her come towards him. She had obviously been to the stores.

She looked almost like the landlady he remembered. Almost. Because there was a certain – gaunt, tight look in her eyes he didn't remember. She also kept turning around and she seemed to have bought enough groceries to last for a week. Was she planning on not leaving the flat during this whole time?

Seeing her stagger beneath the many bags, Mycroft approached her and asked politely, "May I help you with that?"

She was startled, but composed herself when she saw him. Not because she knew him, he realized, but because he wasn't who she had been expecting.

She gave him a tired smile. "Yes, please".

He took the bags without a word and followed her to her front door. She unlocked it, entered the building and turned around, indicating that she wanted to carry the bags from here. He raised an eyebrow, and she gave him the tired smile again.

"I'm sorry if I seem impolite, but... someone just got out of prison and I have to be careful".

Mycroft, despite knowing exactly what she meant, acted appropriately confused, assured her it didn't matter, and walked away, his umbrella tapping on the pavement.

Sherlock hadn't been there to ensure Mr. Hudson's execution, therefore he had got out of prison recently, he realized. Mrs. Hudson was afraid that her abusive husband would come over her, and she was probably right.

Aside from the pity he felt, there was something else, something he hadn't considered yet: What had happened in all the cases Sherlock should have helped the police?

And – Mycroft had to swallow – more importantly: What was Moriarty doing in this reality, without a consulting detective to stop him?


	6. Chapter 6

Thinking about the cases Sherlock had solved brought him back to thinking about DI Lestrade; not surprising, considering he was the closest thing Mycroft Holmes had ever had to a personal friend.

At least, the DI had been the only one – at least before John – to tell him that he thought he shouldn't "stalk" his brother. And he had been the one to make it clear that he thought Mycroft's inaction towards Sherlock's addiction inacceptable. He had offered Sherlock a job under the condition that he quit the drugs; he had kept Sherlock alive before the doctor came along; he had offered Mycroft his condolences after Sherlock's "Death", something not even John had been able to do.

He didn't know what to expect, standing in front of Scotland Yard, looking up at the window he knew to be the DI's; he only knew that he had to see what had become of Lestrade without Sherlock. He couldn't recall whether he had any other friends to speak of except his brother and the ex-army detective; then again, without Sherlock he might still be married (albeit to an unfaithful wife).

Of course, there was the problem of how to introduce himself; there was no reason to suppose the DI knew of his position as "the British Government", as his Sherlock had put it, and Mycroft didn't think he'd believe it, even if he told him. And casually walking up to him, like he had when he had encountered Mrs. Hudson, was unlikely to work – DI Lestrade had been a policeman for almost thirty years now; he would realize that Mycroft just wanted to talk to him, and would probably become suspicious.

He could have had him "kidnapped" (as John had always referred to their arranged meetings) but he doubted that he would be in the habit of doing so in this reality. There was no reason to kidnap Sherlock's friends – his brother seemed to tell him all about them, even encourage them meeting him. Therefore, his having them picked up could lead to some people asking questions. Aside from the fact that this reality's Sherlock would find it odd.

He sighed, looking down, tapping his umbrella against his leg, when he heard a well-known voice behind him ask, "Excuse me, can I help you?"

He turned around, surprised to hear the words he had used towards Mrs. Hudson less than an hour ago, and found a young policeman who looked familiar.

Ambitious, he deduced, ready to show everyone how good he is, but serious about his job, otherwise he wouldn't have asked him if he was alright...

And then he remembered. DI Dimmock.

He had never thought it necessary to have a talk with the young DI, although he had been rather thankful to him for defending Sherlock's good name after his fake suicide and for happily welcoming the consulting detective back on cases. At least he seemed to be doing fine, even if he looked a little more stressed than the last time Mycroft had seen in him on security footage; but seeing as Sherlock wasn't there to help him, that was hardly surprising.

The young DI, however, could probably help him.

"Yes" he replied. "I am looking for DI Lestrade – "

"I'll take you to him" Dimmock answered, smiling and guiding him into the building. On the way to Lestrade's office, Mycroft wondered what he would say; he wasn't used to acting on impulse. Normally he prepared conversations, meticulously acquiring all the information needed. But he supposed he could allow himself some spontaneity in a situation like this – especially since he was rather sure the situation didn't really exist to begin with.

At the door of the DI's office, the younger man turned around.

"Do you want me to introduce you, or – "

"No, thanks, I'll be fine" Mycroft answered, and Dimmock nodded and left, but not without shooting a concerned glance at the locked door. Mycroft frowned. Surely there could be no risk involved in his knocking on a policeman's door, especially if the policeman in question was a good and long-serving DI. And Dimmock, despite his ambition, was generally respectful towards people of authority; since their first case together, he was even respectful to Sherlock. So there was no reason for him to be distrustful because Mycroft wanted to speak to a colleague.

Unless the DI's life had changed just like Mrs. Hudson's had. There was only one way to find out.

He knocked, waited several seconds for an answer, knocked again. Finally a grumbled "What?" came through the door, and he decided to take this as an "enter".

He did so and found DI Lestrade sitting at his desk, eating a muffin, looking over some paperwork. It would have been easy for anyone to fool himself into thinking nothing had changed, but Mycroft had never allowed the luxury of deceiving himself, and he saw.

The DI's posture was stiff, uncomfortable; he sat in the chair not like someone who wanted to be there, but who had to. Mycroft knew that Lestrade had never been fond of paperwork, but he had accepted it as a necessary part of his job. Even when he had been exasperated because of Sherlock, he had never looked so miserable.

The DI looked up and Mycroft was startled by the dirty look he gave him. Lestrade normally didn't act this way, even if a stranger disturbed him.

"What? I didn't want to be disturbed – who let you in here in the first place?"

"A colleague of yours was kind enough to show me the way..." Mycroft answered.

"Bet it was Dimmock" Lestrade mumbled, finishing his muffin and throwing his serviette away.

Mycroft had just decided that he would pose as an employee of the Ministry of Inner Affairs when it turned out he didn't need a cover story after all.

Lestrade stood up and shot him another venomous look. "I guess Mrs. Cubbitt filed the complaint this time? It's hardly my fault if she fails to give vital information and her husband dies because of it..."

"Why don't you tell me your version?" Mycroft suggested, realizing that he had been right. The way Lestrade had asked about the complaint, his attitude – the man didn't care for his job anymore. This was almost worse than Mrs. Hudson's fear, for the simple reason that he could have foreseen (in fact, had foreseen, but not acknowledged the fact) that her husband had survived.

But seeing that a man he had come to know as polite, dependable and passionate about what he was doing for a living had simply stopped caring was not something he could have predicted.

While Lestrade was speaking, he quickly looked at his office and him again, wanting to know as much as possible.

He was still wearing a wedding ring, but it was obviously just out of habit; there was no photograph of his wife in the office, and the state of his suit made it clear he had spent last night at a hotel. Apparently he was only still married because he didn't have a reason to divorce his wife – at least not one he knew of. Mycroft was ready to bet (albeit not a betting man) that she was still cheating on him.

He was smoking again – and obviously a lot; there were three empty packages in the bin, and he counted no less than four lighters all over the desk.

The very untidy desk.

The desk of the DI he remembered had always been tidy. And his office had certainly not looked so – bleak. Lestrade loved having pictures of the people he cared for – his parents, once upon a time his wife; Mycroft was reasonably sure that he had a picture of Sherlock and John in his flat as well. There were no pictures in his office, no plants, nothing except the untidy desk and files and a definitely unhappy DI.

All the while, he was listening to him.

"So Mr. Cubbitt comes to me and tells me about this strange burglar who broke into his house every night just to leave a coded message. I told him this wasn't our division, but he was insistent, so I had a few uniforms watching the house. How could I know that they were too incompetent to see the burglar? Or that he would shoot Cubbitt? And then I had to listen to his wife rant, when really, the burglar was her ex-lover all along, so it was her fault for not telling her husband in the first place, and – "

"You told her so" Mycroft interrupted matter-of-factly, and Lestrade, not expecting to be interrupted, blinked surprised before nodding. "She was annoying" he added, and just like that, Mycroft knew what all of this reminded him of.

DI Lestrade was acting like Sherlock in one of his sulks. Only that he clearly didn't care about anything while Sherlock, despite his attempts to convince everyone of the contrary, cared about everything in his way.

"Are you truly that indifferent?" He hadn't meant to ask the question out loud, and Lestrade let himself fall into his chair, clearly surprised.

"You are a strange one" he said, shaking his head. "But, I suppose, since you are honest with me, why not be honest with you: Yes, I am. I am sick of tired of letting case after case go unsolved, or being too late to save the victims, or having the criminal flee the country."

Mycroft nodded. He understood. Sherlock had never been just a consultant for Lestrade; in a way, he had become a purpose in life for him, too. He had looked over him, made sure he stayed clean. Because of him he had met John and they had become friends – and ever since Sherlock had returned, the DI had spent a lot of time at 221B, even when there wasn't a case.

It was easy enough: Without Sherlock, Lestrade's life was empty.

And, furthermore, there was nothing Mycroft could do about it.

He said goodbye to Lestrade – who by this point must think he was dealing with a lunatic – and left, feeling that saving Sherlock all those years ago had come –

No, not had come. Would have come with a price. This wasn't real, he reminded himself.

He left Scotland Yard, deciding to take a walk to clear his head before returning to the house – it was barely twelve o' clock, and he had only promised to be back in the evening. The memories of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade and John's death certificate kept playing in his mind.

He was so lost in his head that he didn't realize how far he'd walked – in fact, he had been walking for two hours. He, the man who abhorred legwork. Sherlock – his Sherlock – certainly would have been incredibly amused.

The he saw where his steps had led him.

The cemetery where Sherlock's empty grave had been. Automatically, he made his way through the gate, sure to find, in exactly the same place –

Yes. Where Sherlock's grave had been, there was now a neglected grave – flowers long withered, the grass not cut for a while. The headstone said John Watson.

For a moment, his practical side wondered why John had been buried here, in this cemetery, but then he realized it really didn't matter because the man who was lying under that simply grey headstone would have saved the world's only consulting detective and had never known it.

Mycroft didn't know how long he stood there, his head bent; but when it began to rain, he slowly turned around and left, leaving behind the grave of the best man his brother had never known.


	7. Chapter 7

Despite the distance, despite the rain, he decided to walk home… or rather, to the home this Sherlock had shared with his alter ego. Normally, he would have shield himself from the rain with his umbrella; not this time.

He had always had an umbrella, to shield himself in more ways than one; really, no one who knew him had believed it to be just an umbrella, and they would have been right. Sherlock had been the one to go out in the rain unprotected, to feel the drops on his skin, to live with the consequences, and somehow it seemed right to let his umbrella hand loosely at his side for the time being. Especially if this was nothing but a reality Mycroft's mind had made up because of the electric shock; he would hardly catch a cold from imagined raindrops, although they certainly felt real.

People on the street shot him strange looks, but he didn't care. There was too much to think about.

In a way, this reality had given him everything he had ever wanted without admitting it; Sherlock was a scientist, happy, carefree, devoted to him. And yet –

John, Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade... they had all suffered because Sherlock had never entered their lives. Hadn't been there to save John, to ensure Mr. Hudson's execution, to help DI Lestrade. And why should he have been; he had been safely home with Mycroft, the thought of going to Florida or solving crimes or befriending an ex-army doctor had never really crossed his mind.

John had killed himself, had put a gun in his mouth and ended it all, because there had been no one who cared about him, no one who needed him. He had been depressed before he'd met Mycroft's brother – his therapist might not have put it down in her files, but it had been obvious – and his psychosomatic limp and the intermittent tremor in his left hand had certainly not got better while living an utterly normal and, as his Sherlock would have put it, dull life. In the end, the gun had been his only way out.

Mrs. Hudson might live at Baker Street – and her last few years might have been somewhat happy – but she was living in fear of her husband now, her door locked at all times, barely daring to look out the window. Naturally, Mycroft knew that an execution was nothing to rejoice over, but in the case of Mr. Hudson, he was prepared to make an exception.

DI Lestrade had had too many unsolved cases, too many that ended unsatisfactorily, to allow him to be the Inspector Mycroft remembered. Plus he had never met his best two friends and had therefore been completely alone all this years – if one didn't count his cheating wife, and Mycroft didn't.

Before he had landed wherever he was now (in a coma? Still on the machine? He didn't have enough data) he would have been ready to swear that everything would have turned out better if he had taken Sherlock with him.

In a way, it had. Sherlock was a scientist and seemed to be completely happy – not only that, but he loved him like only a brother could, he lived with him, he had made friends in his childhood and during his years at university, he no doubt had achieved considerable success in his work – if Percy Trevelyan spoke with him about his experiments, he must be good.

His personality was different though, how could it not be. He smiled more, he laughed more, he was at ease with himself and his surroundings. He was –

Mycroft couldn't help but think that, in a way, he was far more normal than the brother he had to deal with in his reality. Far more socially acceptable; Mycroft was sure nobody called him a "freak" here, despite his intelligence. And yet –

This normality had come with a price too, albeit one most people would have neglected. Sherlock was less intense. Still enthusiastic about his work, still attached to his friends, but Mycroft was certain that the work didn't mean so much to him as his work as a consulting detective had, and his bonds with his friends weren't as strong as the ones he had with John and DI Lestrade. But wasn't this intensity a fair price to pay, considering he had never tried drugs, never been homeless, never hated Mycroft –

And wouldn't Mycroft be able to sacrifice everyone else if it meant that Sherlock was happy? Sherlock didn't know what had passed him by, didn't know about his passion for crimes, or his friendship with an ex-army doctor. He was content. If Mycroft had had the chance to change the reality he knew so that it would become the one he was currently living – would he have done it? Would he have been ready to kill a brave ex-soldier, make an old lady's life a living hell, destroy a man's belief in what he did, as long as it meant his little brother was everything he had sometimes wished him to be?

Mycroft Holmes didn't know the answer to this question, and that didn't happen often.

It was raining harder now, but he still didn't open his umbrella. Surprisingly the rain helped him think. Maybe it was part of this strange reality –

That thought opened a whole other world of possibilities.

He didn't know how long he would stay in this scenario – he only knew something had gone wrong with the machine. He didn't know how long he would caught in here, but he knew that he had always been able to easily assimilate himself to his surroundings, unlike Sherlock. What if he did it too well? What if he began to believe that this was his reality, this Sherlock his brother, that he had never met John or Mrs. Hudson or DI Lestrade? It would be all too easy and, in some ways, he had to admit, tempting.

As of now, though, there was no danger of that happening anytime soon. He knew who he was; he knew who his brother was; he remembered everything clearly. He would just have to wait and see. He could wake up any minute, after all. No, he corrected himself; he couldn't wake up any minute, he would wake up any minute. This had lasted long enough, especially considering that this Sherlock was insistent on him talking to a psychiatrist.

Even though he couldn't deny that he was a little bit curious about Sherlock's best friend. He simply couldn't imagine someone else than John Watson in this role. But John Watson wasn't here. John Watson was dead and he had just visited his grave. The memory made his stomach clench.

He didn't know how long he walked in the rain; it could have been days, for all he remembered. Concentrating so hard that the outside world almost ceased to exist was a trait he and Sherlock shared, only Mycroft made normally sure not to do it – at least not when he was in public.

When the rain ceased, he looked at his watch and realized that it was after five o' clock. He should be going – to the place this Sherlock called home. He might not be his brother, his real brother, but, illogically, sentimentally, Mycroft didn't want to upset him.

He caught a cab – the driver looked suspiciously on his wet clothes and the closed umbrella in his hand, but said nothing – and returned to the mansion.

Sherlock hadn't come home yet, thankfully, so he didn't have to explain the state he was in and was able to go upstairs and take a shower. He chose to dress himself in another suit – this wasn't the real world, and pretending to be part of it would do no good – and went downstairs to wait. Sherlock would be home rather soon; he had been adamant about Mycroft seeing this Professor. He sat down, feeling rather tired. He wasn't used to legwork and he had been walking around for hours.

He was right; Sherlock came home about half an hour later, dripping wet. Despite this, he immediately looked at Mycroft, who had come into the hall to greet him and asked, "Why are you wearing a different suit?"

"The rain" Mycroft answered and left it at that. Sherlock seemed to wait for an explanation, but when none came, he sighed and went upstairs to change. When he came back, he and Mycroft went to the living room and he told his elder brother what he had found out.

"Percy should never have left you anywhere near this machine; the processes are so complicated that anything could happen. I tried to make sense of all this, but came up empty". He put his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his hair.

Mycroft would have liked to comfort him – real or not real, he had never liked to see his brother suffer – but, after so many years in which he hadn't been allowed to, he had no idea how. After a few minutes, he decided to interrupt his thoughts. "I went to see Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade".

Sherlock nodded. "I expected as much. And?"

Mycroft told him, about Mrs. Hudson being scared of her husband, about DI Lestrade being a mere shell of the man they had known. He decided not to talk about the graveyard; he didn't want to see his brother so indifferent about John's death again. Sherlock listened and then –

Then he tried to comfort him.

"I'm sure you can organize protection for Mrs. Hudson" he said. "You do have some influence". He smiled, but Mycroft couldn't return it. Sherlock hearing about Mrs. Hudson scared threatened, and his only response being that Mycroft could organize protection for her (he would, definitely; this might not be real, but that didn't mean he could allow his mind to do anything to Sherlock's landlady) – it was wrong. Plain and simple.

But when he talked about Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had been interested. Not much, but he had seen why it would affect Mycroft.

He didn't feel the same way about DI Lestrade.

He shrugged and asked, "And it's bad that he is still married?"

"He doesn't care for his wife. He doesn't care about anything".

Sherlock shrugged again. "There are worse ways of living."

Mycroft didn't answer because he realized he couldn't get Sherlock to care.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock asked, "Do you want to eat?"

"I'm not hungry" Mycroft replied absently.

Sherlock looked at him critically. "You should. You look pale."

"I'm fine" Mycroft hissed, harsher than intended, and Sherlock cringed, then stood up. "Fine. I'll be in my room. The Professor is going to be here soon – don't bother going to the door, I'll let him in".

He was out of the living room before Mycroft had a chance to apologize, and the older Holmes sighed and looked at the floor. Sherlock might be everything he had always hoped his younger brother to be, but he wasn't the older brother he needed.

After a few minutes, the music started, and he recognized the piece as one Sherlock usually played when he had to calm down. He listened to him, wondering how he could go back to his reality, when the door bell rang, the music stop and he heard Sherlock walk into the hall and open the door. There was a muffled conversation – most likely Sherlock telling the Professor that there had been no ages – and Mycroft thought that the second voice sounded strangely familiar. He didn't turn around, though, not even when he heard them coming to the living room, not until he heard a voice he now recognized say: "Good evening, Big Brother. What seems to be the problem?"

He sprang up and turned around. There, in the doorway, smiling politely at him the way one did at people one had known for a long time, stood Jim Moriarty.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft stared at the consulting criminal before him, for once in his life speechless. The smile of the other man dropped, and he was in front of Mycroft within seconds, looking him in the eyes. "Mycroft? Mycroft? Is everything alright?" He put a hand on his shoulder and made him sit down. In this moment Sherlock came into the room and immediately rushed over.

"What happened? Mycroft?" Finding his brother still unable to answer, he turned to his friend. "Jim?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't know. I greeted him and he stared at me like I had grown two heads".

By this time, Mycroft had sufficiently recovered to speak. If Jim Moriarty was the Professor, he was Sherlock's best friend. They had known each other since they were twelve, if he remembered correctly.

The scariest thing about it was that it made sense. Sherlock and Moriarty had been enemies because they had been on different sites, but it was easy to see that they could have become friends if they had met under different circumstances. Both highly intelligent, both very enthusiastic about their work. And, apparently, in this world, they had met when they were young and now they were best friends – even without Sherlock's explanation, Mycroft would have known. Their body language when standing next to each other was that of persons who had known each other a long time and were comfortable in each other's presence.

And right now they were both looking at him with concern.

"You said on the phone he didn't have any physical injuries?" Jim asked. Sherlock shook his head. "I would have noticed. And he should have had symptoms before now. But he did run around in the rain and he hasn't eaten all day".

Jim nodded and looked at Mycroft once again.

"Why don't you make him a sandwich, Sherlock? Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him".

Sherlock turned around immediately – another indicator for how much he trusted Moriarty – and Mycroft looked at the consulting criminal who was obviously a psychiatrist in this world. He told himself not to worry; this Jim Moriarty was Sherlock's friend, and Sherlock was in the kitchen. He was safe.

Even though it was hard not to flinch when Mroiarty sat down next to him on the sofa. He had seen the man's corpse, and more, he had even been happy to do so. He had made sure to have it removed from the roof – any police investigation would, without a doubt, simply have proved that he was Richard Brook and he didn't want that. So he had had Moriarty's body removed and buried where no one would ever find him. And now this man was sitting next to him, looking at him, even smiling at him.

"Sherlock told me you had an accident in a lab".

Mycroft decided it would be best to just play along and nodded. "Yes. I did".

"And, ever since then, you believed you left Sherlock behind when you went to university?". Moriarty was polite, earnest. That in itself was enough to make anyone unsettled.

"I don't believe. I know" Mycroft replied. There was no need to start arguing with his mind; he could just state the facts. Why should he try to convince Moriarty, of all people?

"And who was I in your... new world?" Jim asked, and Mycroft was taken aback. Jim waved a hand in the air.

"I am a psychiatrist. I know how to read body language. You obviously recognized me, but it wasn't as your brother's best friend. So, who was I?"

"A criminal" Mycroft answered.

Jim nodded. "Mycroft, you must see that this can't be true. I treat people; I teach at university. I have known Sherlock and you since you were twelve and nineteen years old".

"How did we meet?" Mycroft asked, genuinely curious. Moriarty was silent and he rolled his eyes. "We both know I'm too intelligent to fall for the usual therapy techniques, and we also know Sherlock his taking his time with the sandwich so we can talk. So, please, tell me how we met".

Jim hesitated for a second, then began. "You had taken Sherlock to Brighton for a weeks during summer – you wanted him to run around, swim, make a few friends. I was the strange kid wandering around, feeling lonely". He smiled. "Sherlock picked up on it immediately and asked me if I wanted to play. We have been friends ever since".

Mycroft stayed calm, despite the shiver that ran down his spine when he heard Moriarty talk about him and Sherlock "playing". "I see".

The other man nodded. "It was good I had a friend. I wasn't as fortunate as Sherlock. I didn't have a big brother to save me".

Was Mycroft imagining it, or was there a strange –or rather very familiar – glimmer in Moriarty's eyes? It was difficult to say, just like everything in this strange reality was difficult to comprehend.

"God knows what would have become of me otherwise" Jim added and did Mycroft really see the sly look he shot him or did he imagine it? Was he seeing what was there or what he was expecting to see?

"I imagine" He answered, and Jim smiled. "So, now that we got that out of the way – why don't you tell me how you woke up here?"

Mycroft told him because he could see no harm in it. There was nothing Moriarty could do with this information – especially since this world wasn't real, he reminded himself. Although the idea of the consulting criminal being loose in his mind wasn't pleasant.

Moriarty listened to him, nodded at the right times – then again, he was a psychiatrist – and let Mycroft finish without interrupting him.

When he was done, Jim said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "Mycroft, you woke up here. Your brother is here. Surely there is no reason for you to think that you are in a different dimension?"

"Yes, there is. I remember the real world" Mycroft replied, already knowing that he wouldn't get Moriarty to believe him. He didn't even want him to – no matter in which reality, he couldn't trust him – so he didn't really care.

"But Sherlock told me the machine malfunctioned" Jim argued. "Not even the scientist who built it knows exactly what it does, apparently. So how do you know that what you remember is the truth?"

"I just do" Mycroft replied coldly; he wished he would wake up. He didn't want to be lectured by the man who had caused his little brother to disappear for one year (or three, depending on how you looked at it).

Moriarty looked down and then up again. "Just answer me one question: Do you trust your brother?"

This one was difficult to answer, no matter that he was somehow stranded in his mind. Did Mycroft trust Sherlock? He knew that he would have trusted him indefinitely if he had grown up to be what he was here; he remembered that he had thought it a pity that he couldn't trust Sherlock enough to send him to the labs instead of him.

But –

Yes, the Sherlock he had encountered here was far more trustworthy. Generally speaking. And yet, when he thought about sacrifice, friendship, selflessness...

His real brother won. He was the one who had given up everything for his friends, who had spent three years hiding and destroying Moriarty's web so they would be safe.

Mycroft Holmes trusted his brother, and it had taken an electric shock and him being lost wherever he was now to see it.

"Yes, I do" he answered, but it was clear he had waited too long. Jim fixed him with a glare and asked, quietly, so that Sherlock, who was undoubtedly trying to eavesdrop from the kitchen despite giving them time to talk, wouldn't hear, "Don't you think it hurts him?"

Mycroft knew when he was being manipulated, and he'd had enough. "I'm not doing it on purpose" he declared. "And I would welcome it if you could stop analyzing me".

Moriarty said nothing. Apparently Mycroft had been a little too loud, for Sherlock appeared in the door a moment later, carrying a plate with a sandwich. He looked at Jim.

Mycroft wasn't prepared for the unspoken question he saw in his brother's eyes; or rather, he wasn't prepare to see this trust in his brother's eyes while looking at the man who had made his life a living hell. It was unsettling, and he had to look away, so that he didn't see how Jim answered. Apparently not favourable, judging by the way Sherlock let himself fall on the sofa and gave him the plate.

"Thank you".

"No worries" Sherlock mumbled.

There followed an uncomfortable silence during which Mycroft ate his sandwich and watch Moriarty look at Sherlock as if he was concerned about him. It was the strangest situation he had ever been in – and he had once had to settle the dispute of two diplomats over the last bacon roll at a buffet.

It was Jim who broke the silence. Mycroft was sure he wouldn't get used to the man's voice talking so casually to his brother; a shiver ran down his spine every time he heard it. His threats, his cockiness, he didn't mind. He had heard those often enough. But this concern and friendship in his voice...

"Let's show him" Moriarty suggested, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I know it is not the usual therapy in cases of disorientation, I'm the expert, remember?"

"As far as psychiatry goes, Professor, yes. But this is my brother we are talking about – I think we can safely consider him a special case".

"Depends on how you define "special"". Moriarty smirked, Sherlock did the same.

Good God. They were bickering. Of course they were. They were best friends. John and Sherlock had done it too.

"Mycroft? You look pale again".

"I'm fine" he answered automatically. "Go ahead, show me whatever it is you want to show me". Thank God he was used to appear calm in strange situations.

"Your room or his, 'Locky?" Jim asked, shooting his brother a suggestive look, at which Sherlock shook his head in exasperation, and Mycroft realized that Moriarty hadn't changed as much as he had thought. It was a disquieting thought.

He said nothing and followed them into Sherlock's room. Admittedly, he hadn't had enough time to search it thoroughly, and he had been curious about what might be hidden in these drawers, but after he had met this version of his brother, it hadn't felt right to look into his room again.

Now Sherlock, almost frantically (he was starting to get scared as well as concerned, Mycroft could tell, and he didn't blame him – to him it must look like he was losing his brother) opened them and showed him everything Mycroft had given him for his birthday, Christmas, simply because he had felt like it –

Books, notes, science equipment (he seemed to be especially fond of his "first real microscope"). And the pictures. Apparently Sherlock had kept every picture ever taken of the two of them, and Mycroft would gladly have looked at them if he hadn't been so distracted by Moriarty looking into drawers and searching for things to show him too and Sherlock not saying a thing because Jim was obviously allowed to do so...

After a few minutes, Jim exclaimed, "You kept Carl?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I kept him. What else was I supposed to do, Jimmy? Throw him away?"

"Who's Carl?" Mycroft asked.

Moriarty pulled a skull out of a drawer and Mycroft swallowed. Sherlock had had a skull since he was eighteen – he had stolen it from the university – but this skull seemed... smaller than the one he remembered. Almost as if belonging to a child...

"I gave it to 'Locky on his fifteenth birthday" Jim explained happily, holding the skull between his hands.

Mycroft looked from the skull to Jim and then to Sherlock. The skull was small; Moriarty had named it "Carl"; plus, if they had both been fifteen –

It fit.

If this was indeed Carl Powers' skull...

His brother was the best friend of a psychopath in the disguise of a psychiatrist.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft managed to stay calm, even after his discovery; years and years dealing with politicians were finally paying off. There might have been some trace of suspicion in the look Jim shot his way – but he could have imagined it. It was difficult to say.

Did he think that Moriarty was a murderer because he had been in his reality, or because he really was what Mycroft thought he was?

He decided that enough was enough – no matter how many memorandums threw his way, he would never be convinced that this was the real world – and asked, "Anybody else hungry? I'm starving".

Sherlock shot him a relieved look – apparently he had said what his alter ego would have said – and nodded. "I'm hungry too. Jim?"

"When did I ever say no when you offered me food?" the psychiatrist answered and Mycroft managed to smile. He would have preferred to get Moriarty out of the way to –

To what? To tell Sherlock that his best friend was likely a murderer? He had never thought anything could be more complicated than the relationship he shared with his brother, but this world certainly had its own challenges.

He insisted on cooking – he had never allowed any staff in his mansion, so he had learned to cook, and he wanted to be alone – and Sherlock happily acquiesced, once more proving that his brother obviously thought he was slowly remembering their life together.

He found some ingredients in the kitchen and started making dinner, all the while listening to Sherlock's and Moriarty's conversation in the dining room.

What if he was right? What if a psychopath had somehow befriended his brother? Psychopathic personalities developed during childhood – if he had met Sherlock when he was twelve, it might have been too late. He might have simply decided to have a friend to prove that he was human, to have someone to use as an alibi, someone to believe in his innocence if he was ever suspected of something.

But then, Mycroft might simply suspect him because he was Moriarty; because he had met him already under different circumstances, because he had made Sherlock's life a living hell.

And yet – the few strange glances he had seen, the skull named "Carl" – it was too much to be a coincidence. Mycroft Holmes didn't believe in coincidences. He had seen too much to believe in coincidences.

Moriarty was still a psychopath, and Sherlock was completely unaware of it.

That he should have been unaware was simply logical; psychopaths were masters of deception, and he had known Jim since he was twelve. Plus he wasn't interested in crime – he was a scientist, after all. So he hadn't watched the crimes committed in this city, like his Sherlock had, had never thought Carl Powers' death suspicious...

And now Moriarty was using him, using him as the proof that he was human, using Sherlock.

And this was something Mycroft simply couldn't allow.

No one used his brother.

Sherlock wouldn't believe him, though; even less if the Mycroft in this reality hadn't see anything suspicious in Jim, and why would he. He had simply seen someone befriend Sherlock, had been happy about it. He wouldn't have had to worry about Sherlock's friend then – not even Mycroft Holmes suspected a twelve-year-old of being a psychopath – and once had had been old enough...

Mycroft would have trusted him by then. The thought of him trusting Moriarty, of Sherlock trusting Moriarty, made the bile rise in his throat. Jim had made Sherlock trust him, and he would be crushed if –

No, not crushed. Another, eerily familiar sentence flattered through Mycroft's mind. "I'll burn the heart out of you".

Moriarty would finally succeed, although not in the way the Moriarty Mycroft remembered would have thought. He would burn Sherlock's heart out by his betrayal.

Mycroft couldn't let that happen. And there was only one way to prevent it.

He had to tell Sherlock himself. He had to make his brother – this version of his brother, anyway – see that his best friend was a psychopath who had killed the young boy whose skull Sherlock treasured...

He concentrated on making the food before he broke something. Letting his motions rule his judgement had always been dangerous; he couldn't let his anger rule his actions, otherwise Moriarty might notice and prejudice Sherlock against him. There was no reason Sherlock shouldn't believe his best friend if he told him his brother suffered from a delusion and therefore couldn't be believed, no matter what he said...

Mycroft forced himself to let go of the spoon he was holding and went to fetch some plates. He turned the temperature of the oven down when the food was down and carried the plates to the dining room, where Sherlock and Jim were laughing together. Mycroft acted like he had before his realization – at least he hoped so, Jim shot him a rather suspicious look – and returned to the kitchen to get the food after having declined Sherlock's help.

The image of Sherlock and Moriarty laughing together wouldn't leave him alone. They were sitting at the dining room table right now, Sherlock leaning toward Jim, talking to him, trusting him... It was almost too much to bear. But he couldn't simply order Jim out of the house; Sherlock wouldn't understand and probably take Jim's side...

For a moment a thought crossed his mind. What if Sherlock knew what Jim had done? What if Sherlock had been – what if –

What if Sherlock was Jim's accomplice? They were friends, after all, and in his world, Sherlock Holmes had been the only human being Jim Moriarty had admired...

No. Mycroft refused to believe it. It might be irrational – but no. Sherlock would never join Moriarty. Sherlock would never become the consulting criminal's accomplice. Sherlock (as opposed to Mycroft, as he sometimes thought in his darkest moments) had a conscience. And he wouldn't have allowed Sherlock to become like this. He wouldn't have allowed his brother to turn into a murderer. To lose his humanity. It wasn't possible. Especially if they shared as close a bond as Sherlock had suggested. He would have noticed, even if he hadn't noticed what Moriarty was.

But maybe Moriarty was planning on using Sherlock for one of his schemes eventually? Maybe he had already started making him accept, little by little, his world view, was manipulating him...

Mycroft shook his head. He couldn't stand in the kitchen and theorize all evening.

He didn't even know if he was right, not yet; what if the skull wasn't Carl Powers' skull after all? But that should be easy enough to find out, with Sherlock being a scientist and he able to get every document he desired.

He would have to eat with Moriarty and then try and talk to Sherlock. Hopefully Jim wouldn't stay too long.

He brought the food into the dining room and was careful to appear just as calm and slightly confused as Moriarty must think he was. Sherlock kept trying to spark his memories during the dinner by reminding him of vacations, cases (apparently he meant helping Mycroft with certain problems in top secret science labs) and how they had met Jim.

"You had taken me swimming and Jim and I bumped together in the pool..."

No, thought Mycroft, no; he didn't bump into you. He set you up because he had figured it would look better if he had a friend. And he searched for the one lonely boy who didn't seem boring.

He saw Jim's look and knew that he knew what he was thinking. All of a sudden, he didn't care. Sherlock was his brother, Sherlock trusted him, and Jim was aware of that. He couldn't do anything, at least not now.

So Mycroft smiled and nodded and listened, all the while looking at his watch and wishing Jim would leave soon.

He announced he had to go right after dinner, despite Sherlock's urgent invitation to stay a little longer. Jim shot Mycroft a self-satisfied smirk and declined.

Afterwards Sherlock and Mycroft sat in the living room. Sherlock looked at Mycroft, a question in his eyes.

He shook his head and his brother's face fell.

"I'm sorry" he said, although he knew there was nothing to apologize for. He couldn't help it if he was the wrong brother. Or stuck in his head.

"Don't apologize" Sherlock replied softly, looking at the floor.

Then Mycroft did something he hadn't thought he would ever do again. He went to sit beside his little brother and squeezed his hand, trying to comfort him. Sherlock shot him a small smile and asked, "So, how did it go with Jim?"

"You tell me" Mycroft replied lightly. "Or should I suppose you didn't listen?"

Sherlock blushed but smiled. "Maybe I did. Just out of concern, though".

"Of course, brother mine".

Sherlock grinned and Mycroft realized he must be in the habit of calling him "brother mine" here too. He decided not to tell him that he was used to it – there was no reason to make Sherlock unhappy about something so trivial when he was about to inform him he thought his best friend a murderer.

"Sherlock..." he began, once more unsure how to proceed. "What do you know about the skull Jim gave you?"

"Carl? He gave it to me on my fifteenth birthday, told me he'd bought it but not where. The size suggests that it is that of someone between the ages of ten and fifteen..." Sherlock trailed off and stared at Mycroft. Of course he would realize what he meant. Scientist or consulting detective, he was still one of the most intelligent men on the planet.

"Mycroft, what are you implying? Is this because you think Jim is a criminal?"

"I don't think" he answered. "I remember".

"Oh, yes, of course. So, let me guess: He should be in jail".

"Not really."

"What then? Running around, leading his criminal empire?"

"Actually" Mycroft said, deciding to tell Sherlock the truth, "He should be dead. He shot himself... quite a while ago".

Sherlock stared at him. Then he sprung up and started pacing up and down.

"Sherlock" Mycroft tried, "Please, sit down, I can explain – "

"You want me to sit down and discuss things with you when you just told me my best friend committed suicide? Apart from the fact that he is a criminal. And now you suspect him of murder!"

"I'm not sure yet" Mycroft answered, although he was; but Sherlock wouldn't accept any theory without evidence. The irony of Sherlock mourning Moriarty's suicide and being hardly touched by John's didn't escape him and made him even more determined to make Sherlock see the truth.

Sherlock stopped pacing, looked at him and then let himself fall on the sofa, sighing. "Do you have an idea whose skull it could be? Do you "remember" something?"

"I have an idea, yes" Mycroft answered. "We need to go to a lab. Investigate the case."

Sherlock shrugged. "If you want – I do have a key for the lab I most currently work in. Let me fetch Carl".

He was almost out the door when Mycroft asked, "Sherlock – don't call Jim. Please? Promise?"

Sherlock stopped, then turned around and finally sighed. "Fine. But if you are wrong, I'm calling him".

Mycroft nodded and Sherlock went up to his room.

Despite everything, hope stirred within him. If he was right, he could convince Sherlock, and they could work on a way on getting him home.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock was silent during the cab ride to the lab – one Mycroft had not visited, since it was private and didn't receive founds, but was well-known nonetheless – cradling the skull in his lap and looking into the empty eye sockets as if he would find there the answers he needed.

Mycroft didn't say anything and let him sort out his thoughts – Sherlock had to come to his own conclusions. Maybe he had always suspected something; maybe he had always seen a certain emptiness in Moriarty's eyes, felt his friendship to be insincere, known him to be different, different in a dangerous, inhuman way, and hadn't wanted to believe it. Perhaps he had always known something was amiss, and Mycroft, this Mycroft who had no business being here, didn't deserve to be here, even, had opened his eyes.

Maybe.

Or...

Or he didn't believe Mycroft, didn't think it possible that his best friend was a murderer, believed in Jim, wondered how long it would take to prove that his brother had become insane...

Mycroft reminded himself that he shouldn't theorize without data, as his Sherlock would say. Maybe he was simply thinking about the tests that were to come...

Mycroft took out his phone and started to search – or rather demand, thank God he could still get any information he wanted – anything there was to know about Carl Powers.

He had been in London for a swimming tournament too, it would seem, and had drowned here; it was unsettling to learn, though, that there was no report about his skull or head going missing during or after the autopsy, which meant that Moriarty must have added grave robbery to murder – and that at the age of fifteen. Otherwise he couldn't have given the skull to Sherlock.

Thankfully there were dental records of Carl available. If this was his skull – and Mycroft didn't doubt it – they could prove it. True, this wouldn't be of any use against Moriarty – they could show he had given his skull to Sherlock, not that he had killed him – but it could convince Sherlock that he wasn't suffering from delusions. And his brother was a scientist in this world, so he might just be able to help him to return, whatever that entailed.

He looked out the window, pretending he didn't know Sherlock was looking at the skull, questioning his life, him, Jim, everything. There was nothing he could say or do to make it easier.

He couldn't make it easier, that was. Maybe the older brother this Sherlock remembered, the one he looked up to, trusted, would be able to help him with a word, a look, a smile. But Mycroft couldn't. Even though he and Sherlock had grown closer together since his brother had returned, in many respects they were still strangers who had never relearned to talk to each other properly.

He swore to himself, right there in the cab, next to a strange and yet so familiar man that he would change that once he returned home. He would talk to Sherlock, would try to gain his trust again.

Once he returned. When he returned. If he returned.

No, he couldn't think like that. Mycroft Holmes had never encountered an obstacle he couldn't overcome, and he wasn't about to start now. He would return because he had to. There was simply no other option.

Not even –

Not even the thought of Sherlock being so fond of him could shake his determination.

Because, yes, he had always wished without admitting it to himself that he and Sherlock could be close again. But he wasn't the older brother this Sherlock had grown up with, and this Sherlock wasn't the little brother he loved. He was just as intelligent, he was friendly, he was open – but he wasn't Sherlock. Mycroft wanted the Sherlock he remembered to trust him like this one did.

All in all, it was rather very complicated, even by his standards of international politics.

Sherlock decided to speak. "Do you really believe what you told me?"

"Yes" Mycroft answered, wishing he could make the blow less severe, "Yes, I do."

"I see" Sherlock replied, and then he lapsed back into silence. In a way, Mycroft was used to uncomfortable silences with his brother; just not to the fact that he had just tried to convince him that his best friend was a murderer. Or that he could actually remember this best friend committing suicide.

He could imagine how his Sherlock would react to the news and, predictably enough, he didn't think he would act much differently. Silent sulking. How often had he had to deal with it over the years...

Had this other Mycroft Holmes had the same problem, he wondered? Or had a simple "snap out of it" been enough to made Sherlock smile again? He would never know, and he wasn't about to ask. The situation was difficult enough without what-ifs running through his head.

He realized that his thoughts were running in a circle. This hadn't happened often – only twice or thrice in the course of the years – but it had almost led to a national crisis every time, so he decided to snap out of it and concentrate and proving that the skull was that of Carl Powers'.

When they arrived at the lab, Sherlock got out without a word and left Mycroft to pay the fare. He frowned and followed after his brother. At least Sherlock was waiting for him in front of the entrance.

The young security officer smiled and nodded at Sherlock when they entered the building.

"Hi, Sherlock. Want to do something unspeakable in the night when no one can see you?" he asked, looking at the skull in his hands.

Then he saw Mycroft and nodded, standing up straight. "Mr. Holmes".

Mycroft nodded too, pretending to know the man who now looked at Sherlock, taking in his expression.

"Sherlock, is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Raz" Sherlock replied absently, walking down a corridor. Mycroft smiled at the young man in a hopefully reassuring manner and followed his brother.

They soon came to a lab Sherlock had to love, definitely; the equipment was expensive, there was enough light, and, since it was almost ten pm, no one was around to disturb them. He saw Sherlock relax and knew it had been right to let him choose where to go. He felt at ease here in his familiar surroundings.

He sat the skull on a table, looked at it for a moment, then turned his gaze to Mycroft. "So you think the victim was..."

"Carl Powers" Mycroft finished the sentence. He had checked the dates in the file quickly when he had downloaded them and knew the details of his murder were the same he remembered. "Twelve years old at the time of his death".

"I see" Sherlock mumbled, leaning over the skull, getting lost in the science. After a few minutes, he stood up.

"Well, it does look like the skull of a Caucasian male between ten and fifteen..." he said. "I'm not exactly an expert, however; I'm more into genetic research."

"Do you know anyone to help us out?" Mycroft asked hopefully. Sherlock shook his head.

"I doubt Molly would help us".

"Molly Hooper? Why not?"

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes but stopped himself. He didn't ask how Mycroft knew about Molly, though, and that concerned him.

"I can hardly call her and say, "Hey, Molly, we are trying to find out whether your boyfriend is a killer", can I?"

"No, I suppose not" Mycroft answered, his heart sinking. Of course, if Moriarty was living a normal life – or as normal as it could be while being the youngest professor at university and the best friend of one of the most brilliant scientists England had ever seen – he would eventually think it necessary to have a girlfriend, and Molly Hooper had been his choice once before. He would probably have preferred Sherlock, but thankfully this version seemed to be just as asexual as Mycroft's real brother.

He was sorry for Miss Hooper, though. As far as he remembered, she and DI Lestrade had grown quite close over the last few months; he should probably check on them when he returned, just to make sure.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock.

"We need to identify him. Do you – "

"I have his dental records" Mycroft answered, perhaps a little bit too eagerly. "All we have to do is..."

"I'll x-ray him" Sherlock said, taking the skull and vanishing in another room. Mycroft sat down, staring at the table, wondering what Sherlock was thinking at the moment. He thought about his Sherlock, who would rather have had Mycroft declared insane than admit that John was a murderer. But then – this version trusted his brother. This version wouldn't think his theories insignificant simply because he didn't want to believe them.

Thankfully Sherlock came back before his thoughts could turn into a circle again.

"The dental records?"

"I sent them to your e-mail" Mycroft said, knowing it would be better to see them on a big screen.

Sherlock still didn't talk as he logged into the computer, and Mycroft walked up and down the lab, missing his umbrella. He hadn't taken it with him when he'd left because he had seen Sherlock's gaze when he'd walked to his umbrella stand automatically, seen that he only connected Mycroft's umbrella with official business and hadn't wanted to believe his brother's accusations yet.

So, instead of tapping his umbrella against his leg, he walked up and down for the next few minutes until he heard a sharp intake of breath and knew what had happened.

Sherlock had confirmed that the skull belonged to Carl Powers'.

His brother slumped forward, his head in his hands, and Mycroft was at his side in seconds.

"Sherlock..." He put a hand on his shoulder, but Sherlock shook it off. He glared at the older Holmes.

"Don't say anything". Then he started pacing up and down. Mycroft simply sat down and watched him, knowing he would have to come to terms with what happened. Sherlock had undoubtedly checked the identification at least twice before accepting what it entailed and now had to live with the fact that the friend he had known for over twenty years was a cold-blooded killer; worse, had given the proof that he was to him as a present, enjoying the knowledge that Sherlock had the skull of a murdered boy in his room. It must be almost too much to bear.

After a few minutes, though, Sherlock sat down next to him. Looking at the table, he stated, "You were right".

Mycroft nodded even though his brother couldn't see him. There was no need to answer.

"Jim killed a young boy" Sherlock said, still with a tone of disbelief in his voice. "When he was fifteen."

"Actually" Mycroft replied, softly, knowing that he couldn't soften the blow, "He was fourteen".

Sherlock swallowed, then nodded. He looked up, finally meeting Mycroft's eyes. "You knew" he said, "You knew as soon as you saw Jim".

"Yes".

"Because you recognized him". Sherlock was still looking at him, his gaze boring into Mycroft's eyes. "From your – your other life".

"Yes" Mycroft replied.

Sherlock blinked, slowly. Then he said, "There are certain theories – "

"Yes?" Mycroft prompted.

"That every choice we make creates a parallel universe – where we make a different choice".

"I see" Mycroft answered. "And if the portal really acted like a portal..."

"Then you were brought in the parallel universe where you had taken me with you" Sherlock finished.

"Do you think you could find a way to send me back?" Mycroft asked hopefully. Sherlock thought about it for a while, then said, "Probably. I'll have to talk to Percy."

It was the best answer he could get, so Mycroft said nothing.

"However" Sherlock added.

"However?"

Sherlock's eyes were ablaze. "Help me bring down Jim first".

"Of course" Mycroft replied. He would always be glad to bring Moriarty down, no matter in which universe.

Sherlock smiled grimly, and Mycroft recognized the light in his eyes.

The game was on.


	11. Chapter 11

They decided to go back to the mansion and formulate their plan there, careful to take all the evidence in the lab with them.

Sherlock was silent during the cab ride – again – but he had given the skull to Mycroft with a disgusted look. It now set on his lap, and he stared at it, wondering what kind of a boy Carl powers had been. It wasn't a pleasant thought, bit it made him even more determined to bring down Moriarty once and for all.

When they arrived, Sherlock went straight into the dining room and, uncharacteristically, filled himself a glass of brandy. He looked at Mycroft, who nodded and gave him a glass too before walking into the living room.

Mycroft carefully placed the skull and the evidence on the table before sitting down on the sofa.

Sherlock sat down next to him, which he took as a good sign. At least he didn't appear to be angry with him.

Sherlock drank half of his brandy before saying, staring at the skull, "You may have noticed I didn't react as... badly as one would have supposed".

"Yes, I did" Mycroft answered. Sherlock had taken the news rather well, all things considered – he didn't think a normal person would have been so calm. But then, Sherlock was not and would never be, a normal person in any universe.

"I suppose" Sherlock continued, still staring at the skull, "I always suspected something. Sometimes there was – there was a sort of emptiness, just behind his eyes. Or his laughter didn't sound quite right. And now and then, he'd be too callous, too cold, and I would think "that isn't like Jim". Of course, I didn't realize that, on the contrary, it was. That it was the real Jim, and the other one, the friend I knew, was the invention..."

He stopped and sighed. Mycroft wasn't surprised that Sherlock had felt something was wrong. Not even someone like Moriarty could hide whop he was at all times; and they had known each other for a long time. Naturally, Sherlock had pushed his doubts away, had probably not even acknowledged them; but now he had to remember all those little moments when the truth had suggested itself to him.

Mycroft sat still and waited for Sherlock to finish; he was sure his brother had something else to say.

He did. "And you are sure he killed the boy".

"I am."

"Because you remember it".

"Yes".

Sherlock fixed him with the deducing gaze he remembered so well.

"What else did he do?"

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft asked, although he knew what Sherlock meant.

His brother rolled his eyes. "Please, Mycroft, I know you. Your face when you talk about him... You hate him. I am not saying killing a young boy isn't worth your hate, but it's clear he must have done something worse – done something to someone you care about – " he trailed off and took a deep breath before asking, "Am I dead?"

It was certainly the strangest question Mycroft had ever heard from his brother's lips but considering the circumstances it was understandable. He shook his head.

"What then?" Sherlock demanded, and Mycroft admitted to himself that it had been foolish not to tell him about Moriarty's last great game and his three lost years. He had yielded to the temptation of pretending he had never told Jim his brother's life story because her, in this reality, he hadn't, and it had been easy, too easy to lie, or at least not tell the whole truth. He had to, now. Sherlock had to know what they were up against.

So he told him, told him how he had let the consulting criminal go and about his faked death and how he'd finally contacted Mycroft.

Sherlock listened to him without interrupting him even once. At the end, he said quietly, "So you think he is a "consulting criminal" here too?"

"It's the logical assumption" Mycroft replied. Sherlock said nothing, and Mycroft, rather stupidly, asked, "Are you alright?"

Sherlock chuckled darkly. "Depends on your definition of "alright"". He looked at the skull, then back at Mycroft. "You and me... in this... in your – universe, did we ever make up our differences?"

It was a difficult question, even though this Sherlock obviously thought Mycroft had to know the answer. But they had never talked about it, really. He suspected that his brother was thankful for the information he had given him while he had been tracking down Moriarty's network and that he didn't bear him a grudge, and they could at least talk to each other for five minutes without Sherlock insulting his weight. But as to "make up", as to being brothers in the way this Sherlock and the other Mycroft (if this was another universe, and the other Mycroft had existed) were –

Mycroft leaving had driven the first wedge between them. Mycroft not reacting properly to Sherlock's addiction had driven them further apart. And then he had forced Sherlock to stay with him. And, in the end, he had betrayed him to Moriarty.

The truth was that Mycroft didn't think "making up" was possible anymore. Sherlock would probably laugh in his face if he attempted an apology.

Somehow Sherlock seemed top guess what he was thinking.

"It's never too late" he argued.

Mycroft shook his head. "You might find that – "

"Between brothers it isn't" he argued, and Mycroft decided not to tell him that his Sherlock would undoubtedly prefer to be an only child.

"Maybe you could talk to each other, that's always supposed to help" Sherlock added sarcastically when Mycroft didn't answer, and he simply nodded.

Sherlock seemed to give up – for now, at least – and said, "So, back to Moriarty – if he is as good as you say, we will have problems finding evidence against him".

"Definitely" Mycroft answered. "It will be quite the challenge, I fear".

Sherlock's eyes sparkled – apparently this version liked a challenge too, whether he realized it or not.

"What do you remember, then?" he asked. "What did he do, except from playing his so-called games with me? Since he called Carl powers here too, it is possible he committed other crimes you can recall as well."

Mycroft stood up and got his laptop. For a moment, he considered calling Anthea, but since Sherlock had already told her he wasn't feeling well, she would probably (despite doing what she was told, as always) think he had lost his mind and made his brother's best friend into the most dangerous criminal England had ever seen.

Because it became apparent as soon as he checked his files that they had never suspected Jim Moriarty in the slightest. Really, he should have known this; he should have thought about it sooner. But he had been so focused on Sherlock and Sherlock's friends, and he had been utterly convinced that Moriarty was dead. He simply hadn't thought (or wanted to think) it possible that the consulting criminal could still be alive, arranging crimes like he always had.

All he could find out about Moriarty was what Sherlock had told him; he was a respected professor, he had published quite a lot (even a book of children's stories) and, judging by the pictures of official functions he had been dating Molly for two years.

Mycroft frowned and searched at first for the cases Sherlock had been involved with.

The results were hardly encouraging, and he began to understand why Lestrade had given up.

Jeff Hope had never been caught, but judging from the particulars of the case – serial suicides and no trace of a motive – he must have killed seven people over the course of two years. The suicides had ceased then – a quick check proved that he had died of his aneurism and that his children had indeed received a large sum of (untraceable) money.

Thank God he didn't have to go through the official channels; being the "British government" had his upsides.

Sherlock set next to him and scanned the documents he opened with a quick glance.

"He's good" he commented, "but we already knew that". He sighed as yet another picture of Jim and Molly popped up and shook his head. "I guess when this is over I'll have to tell her she dated a psychopath – or is she..." He looked at Mycroft, who shook his head.

"No, she wasn't his accomplice. At least not in my reality".

"Some good news, at least" Sherlock replied. Then they focused on the cases again.

The Black Lotus was apparently still active, judging by how many Chinese art was sold anonymously at auctions.

Mycroft searched in vain for a reference to Irene Adler in his records; had Moriarty refused to help her?

"What did she do, exactly?" Sherlock asked, and Mycroft told him.

Sherlock thought for a moment, then he said, "He wouldn't have needed her. He comes and goes at all hours, really; you know I don't sleep much. He wouldn't have needed a code or me to figure out what it meant to find out government secrets. It would have been easy for him to slip into your room at an unguarded moment..." he swallowed and Mycroft said, gently, "It's not your fault".

"I know" Sherlock answered absently and Mycroft didn't push it.

It became clear, however, as they went over the most famous criminal cases of the past fifteen years that Moriarty had indeed become a spider in this reality as well. The pattern didn't suggest itself immediately; but, once you knew what to look for, once you were searching for plots only a great mind could have planned, once you looked over the files of suspects and convicts and realized that there was no way they could have come up with this idea...

It became clear that there was indeed a consulting criminal active in London. For a moment, Mycroft wondered who he had to obsess over now, then he realized: Moriarty needed no one to play games with. He had his own game, playing the best friend of a well-known scientist, the happy boyfriend of a nice pathologist, the excellent psychiatrist of many thankful patients.

It was a truly great game he had played, Mycroft couldn't deny that; a game he had been winning for years now, a game he would without a doubt have continued to play until the very end, if Percy Trevelyan hadn't decided to build a Choice Portal...

Eventually, Sherlock asked the one question that had haunted both of them.

"What now? We know he did all of this, but we can't prove it. And I don't think we can kill him and hide his body – I mean, we could, but – "

"Sherlock" Mycroft said, then stopped himself when he realized he had just sued exactly the same tone he always did while chastising his brother. Sherlock was silent and he realized that he had simply tried to lighten the mood.

"I'm sorry, I'm just not used to – "

"Us getting on?" Sherlock looked into his eyes and Mycroft had to look away.

"I'm sure it will get better once you return" Sherlock said in a voice that brooked no argument and then suggested, "So – Moriarty likes to play games, right?"

"Yes" Mycroft answered. "Very much, in fact. What are you suggesting?"

"He's probably getting bored with his "normal life" anyhow..." Sherlock continued...

"And?" Mycroft asked, growing impatient.

Sherlock's eyes blazed. "Let's give him an archenemy to play with".

"You mean – "

"Of course". Sherlock smiled grimly. "I think this world would be better off with a consulting detective of its own, don't you agree?"


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft looked at this Sherlock, this Sherlock he didn't know and recognized the light in his eyes, the determination in his voice and the way he sat. For a moment, he wondered if Sherlock Holmes had always been meant to become a consulting detective, whether he had interfered or not, whether he had taken him with him or not. Maybe, in the end, it didn't matter; maybe Sherlock Holmes should be a force for good in any world, while he –

He looked and Sherlock and realized it didn't matter. At least not now, at least not when they had to fight of Moriarty once and for all.

Although, looking at Sherlock, it would be difficult, even more difficult than before. Jim had been his friend – his best friend. Try as he might, he couldn't imagine his Sherlock deciding to destroy John and go through with it, no matter what the doctor might have done. And then –

This version of Sherlock – he simply – he seemed so –

Innocent.

He had never taken drugs, never been really alone; he had never caught criminals, never solved cases, perhaps he didn't even comprehend now what catching Moriarty entailed. Mycroft – or this version of him, anyway – had sheltered him, given him a good life, but made him defenceless against people like the consulting criminal. No matter how clever he was, he would need Mycroft's help to get the better of him, because the only man who could have helped him other than his older brother was dead. DI Lestrade – if he would even listen to them, which Mycroft doubted – couldn't do anything against a famous professor without losing his job; and while he didn't care about it, he certainly wouldn't care about two "amateurs" stumbling into his office, especially if one of these strangers had let him believe that he was there to investigate a complaint filed against him.

They couldn't get help from Anthea either, for reasons Mycroft had already listed enough times to himself to know them by heart. And they couldn't trust anyone else – if Moriarty's web was only nearly as big as the one Mycroft remembered, he would know instantly someone was investigating him if. The only reason Mycroft dared access the files on his computer (Jim would make the connection if he saw which files had been accessed) was because he had long ago made sure that his laptop could never be traced.

There was only one man Mycroft would have trusted, to help them, to keep his brother safe, not to betray them in the end, but this man didn't exist. Anymore.

It was John they needed, but John wasn't there.

And Mycroft wasn't used to do legwork. And Sherlock wasn't used to investigate a crime. And it was his best friend they were investigating.

"Don't look so worried" Sherlock interrupted his musings. "I'm sure we'll think of something".

Mycroft would have asked how he could have known what he thought about, but this was a Sherlock who had been living with him for over twenty years; he would know every single one of Mycroft's expressions.

So he nodded, even though the word "we" made him realize once again just how much this and his Sherlock differed for all their similarities.

"So" Sherlock announced, as if it was the only logical thing to do, "we need to solve a case Moriarty was involved in. He is sure to notice that".

"While I cannot disagree" Mycroft answered, "I am not sure how we will track down a crime that either hasn't even been recognized as such or not linked to anyone remotely connected with Moriarty and yet been committed by him".

Sherlock smiled –it was a cold, calculating smile, a smile that didn't make bode well for the consulting criminal, and Mycroft suddenly had the thought that, perhaps, his showing up in this world, this reality, and forcing Sherlock to grow up, to fight, wasn't really a good thing. He simply said "Go on", however, before his brother could realize what he was thinking.

"You know how he acts, how he arranges crimes. And, if this is indeed his living, he certainly organized at least one major crime in the last few weeks. And you have access to all police files". Sherlock was gesticulating wildly now, clearly caught up in the action of it all – Mycroft didn't think he had had many adrenaline rushes being a scientist.

He opened the files and searched. Surely, Sherlock was right – there must be something – an elaborate scheme, an ingenious plan, something that could only have been done by Moriarty...

He found it after almost ten minutes of searching, while Sherlock was mumbling to himself, his eyes glittering as if he had just found a whole new world, as Mycroft believed he had indeed – he just wasn't sure if his brother was aware this wasn't just a game, if he knew what they were dealing with.

But then he clicked on a file and all his worries fled from his mind. There was only one man who would suggest that an old captain who had decided to stock up his pension by posing as an investment banker and therefore rob many people of their money should be murdered by being nailed with a harpoon.

"That harpoon must have been a souvenir from one of his voyages, it's definitely from the nineteenth century" Sherlock commented as soon as he saw the pictures. Mycroft raised and eyebrow and he blushed. "You know I wanted to be a pirate when I was young, right?"

"Of course" Mycroft answered, and the memory of the little boy who ran around the garden proclaiming he would sail across the world one day flittered through his mind. "Anyway, former Captain Peter Carey, known as "Black Peter" – he seems to have had a quite severe reputation – was found dead two three days ago. The case is being investigated by – " he stopped, seeing a familiar name on the screen. Sherlock guessed what he was about to say.

"DI Lestrade, I presume?"

"Yes" Mycroft replied. "However, I hardly suppose he would welcome us in on his case".

"If he doesn't care about anything – "

"I dare say going after a famous professor might cost him his job, and even Lestrade would care about having no roof under his head".

"We could always offer him a room" Sherlock answered, lightly. "After all, he was one of my friends, wasn't he?"

Mycroft smirked at the thought, realizing Sherlock was trying to lighten the mood again. "It might take him a little while getting used to..." He grew serious. "But we – "

Sherlock interrupted him, suddenly looking very young, and Mycroft realized that this question must have been gnawing on him for a while, ever since he found out about Jim.

"Mycroft, this DI and – the doctor, they liked me for what I was?"

"Of course they did. Just like your friends here do" Mycroft replied automatically, but he already knew what Sherlock was thinking. The one friend he had trusted the most, the one friend he had been comfortable sharing his secrets with, had betrayed him, had lied to him all along.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in the air. "They aren't really close friends". He looked at the table and asked, "And this doctor – he saved my life after knowing me for twenty-four hours?"

"He did".

Sherlock looked up. "Is it possible to mourn something you never had?"

"Yes" Mycroft said, looking at this brother he could have had, and his eyes softened. "It definitely is".

Sherlock nodded, then looked at the pictures on the screen again. "We are going to need evidence. Obviously. And we are going to have to take a look at the crime scene so we can deduce".

For a moment, Mycroft wondered where Sherlock had got this word from, then he remembered he had taught him the basics of deduction when he was seven. He might not have used the technique for decades now, but he certainly remembered. And just like that, hope stirred in him. If Sherlock could deduce, he could prove Moriarty was guilty.

"The only question is" Sherlock continued "how are we going to get into the crime scene?"

He saw Mycroft's smile and shook his head. "Of course. Stupid of me".

"I'm afraid, brother mine, that it is going to be an unofficial visit".

"Oh, I know how to pick a lock" Sherlock replied, pleasantly.

"Why doesn't that surprise me. Just don't tell me I taught you that, too".

"You didn't – you simply locked away my chemicals when you thought I needed rest, and I had to get to them somehow". Sherlock smirked.

He stood up. "We should get going. The night isn't going to last forever". When they reached the hall, he began to make his way upstairs.

"Getting your equipment?" Mycroft asked while taking his umbrella out of the stand.

"Yes – and making sure I look the part" Sherlock replied enigmatically.

Mycroft knew what he meant when he came down ten minutes later, a bag in his hand and in a suit and the purple shirt he had worn so often in the reality the British Government came from. He hid a smile when he realized Sherlock had decided to change to make it easier for him.

"Shall we go?" Sherlock asked and opened the door.

They took another cab but made sure that it dropped them off a block away from the crime scene.

"There will be a guard, of course" Sherlock said.

"Yes" Mycroft answered. For a moment, he thought about shooting his gun in the air to attract the attention of the PC away from the crime scene, then he realized he hadn't brought his gun with him. He simply was not made for this kind of late-night excursions.

"I wish I had brought my – " Sherlock took the gun out of his coat pocket. "Don't mention it. All we need to do is make sure we are in the house by the time he returns – we just have to close the door after us".

Mycroft nodded and shot in the air. The hid in the shadows until they heard the PC running past them, then they swiftly made their way to the house and Mycroft held the flashlight for Sherlock while he was opening the door.

"Sherlock – " he hissed. "I can already hear him coming back".

"Relax" Sherlock murmured, "Almost – there".

They made it through the door just in time and peered out the window to see the PC return to the car, oblivious to their presence.

Sherlock winked at Mycroft and strolled of to find the living room where the murder occurred.


	13. Chapter 13

By the time Mycroft had followed him, Sherlock was already looking at the bloodstain the Captain had left behind.

"Any suspects?" he asked. Mycroft nodded. "A man he had convinced to invest in his scheme committed suicide; his son had contact with Carey shortly before he was murdered".

"What sort of contact?" Sherlock's eyes looked at the room, dissecting it.

"He punched him in the street and called him a murderer" Mycroft replied, looking around himself.

"But you don't think he was the one to hire Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, kneeling down to look at the blood stain.

"No. He wouldn't have attacked Carey before the murder was about to happen. He would have known better, or at least Moriarty would have warned him".

"If he didn't think it would be hilarious to have his client arrested" Sherlock mumbled, looking at the bloodstains.

Mycroft shook his head. "The nephew, based on all reports, is devastated that he has been arrested. He would have told the police about Moriarty by now".

"Do you think they have any evidence against him?"

The unexpected question confused Mycroft for a moment, until he realized that he had been stupid – of course this Sherlock would care (or show it, he was sure his real brother cared just as much as this Sherlock did but wouldn't admit it) about a man wrongfully imprisoned.

"No, I don't think so" he answered honestly. No one could be sent to jail because he had punched someone. The judge and jury would need more proof than that.

Sherlock nodded, relieved, and Mycroft decided that, the next time someone was threatened while being involved in a case, he would watch his brother more closely, and, if he seemed even the least bit upset, talk to him. Even though Sherlock would probably think he had gone mad; after all, caring was a serious disadvantage –

A lesson he would never get this Sherlock to believe.

"There was no struggle" Sherlock announced, standing up. "Whoever was here with Black Peter, the captain obviously didn't think he would harm him. The harpoon was grabbed from the wall" – he pointed out the spot – "And yet..."

"And yet what?" Mycroft prompted when Sherlock didn't add anything.

"And yet" Sherlock finished the sentence softly, "Why would someone grab a harpoon from a wall? Look at all these expensive and heavy statuettes in the living room – it would have been easier to just hit him on the head with one. Moriarty must have told whoever he sent to specifically use the harpoon."

"It would certainly satisfy his flair for the dramatic - and his client certainly didn't specify how he wanted him to get rid of his problem".

Now, the question is, why would Black Peter trust someone he didn't know? It must have been a hit man, and yet – "

"He could have posed as an attorney" Mycroft suggested. "He could have thought he could prevent him from suing him..."

"My, that's brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed, and Mycroft was reminded that, no matter how normal it was for him that Sherlock was at a crime scene, this was a different world, where his brother was complementing him instead of John Watson complementing his brother. It felt wrong. He didn't say anything, though, and instead started looking around himself, hoping that he would find something to help identify the hit man. Moriarty would never use an amateur, and Mycroft knew most professional hit men operating in London (or, at least, willing to operate in London and being in possession of a passport that would allow them to go to England).

Sherlock was looking at everything at once, his eyes almost rolling out of his head, clearly enjoying what he was doing, but at the same time looking confused about why he enjoyed it. Again, the thought of Sherlock being destined to become the foremost champion of law of his generation came to his mind unbidden. But it made him question if he had done the right thing in telling Sherlock about Moriarty at the same time. Moriarty would never have hurt his brother; he needed him as his human alibi. If Sherlock was in danger now, it was because of him. And Moriarty.

Once again. Once again he had done what he considered to be right without even contemplating how dangerous the truth could be for his brother. And now Sherlock was breaking into a crime scene, trying to solve said crime, after having sworn to bring down the most dangerous criminal London had ever seen.

Yes, he had been innocent before, maybe a little bit too innocent, a little too careless. But he had been safe. And now he wasn't.

Somehow, Mycroft felt that his alter ego in this world would never have brought his brother in danger. He had taken him with him, he had raised him. He would have looked after him better than Mycroft ever had.

But they were here now, and it was no use to think about the past. It never was. So Mycroft shook himself out of his stupor and continued looking for clues.

"My!" Sherlock almost shouted – just almost because he had obviously reminded himself they weren't supposed to be there in the first place – "The Police are idiots!"

The sentence was too familiar not to smile, and Mycroft walked over to him. "What is it?"

"He kept a diary – a diary, Mycroft, a handwritten diary!"

Sherlock apparently expected him to leap with joy, but Mycroft only asked, "So – is there anything about his "clients"?"

"Yes, there is. He frequently refers to a list – but a list that he "hid". To a man like Black Peter, this can only mean he wrote the names down and hid them somewhere – look at this living room, it's old-fashioned. The tv-set was bought at least ten years ago, as well as the radio. I am sure he only had a laptop because he needed it for his schemes – he was probably suspicious of technology... He wouldn't use the term "hiding" if he had saved it in his laptop".

"He hid a handwritten note somewhere" Mycroft replied, scanning the room.

Sherlock nodded. "According to the file, his laptop is missing. Whoever killed him took it with him. And yet the police manage to overlook a diary – a diary with a vital clue in it! No wonder they needed me in your reality..." Sherlock continued to rant and Mycroft interrupted him with, "Well, we have it now, don't we? So, where do you think the list could be hidden?"

Sherlock started pacing up and down. "It must be somewhere he could always reach it if the need arose, and yet not in the house – he couldn't have trusted every intruder to be as stupid as his murderer or the police. Some place he knew, some place he felt comfortable – " He stopped talking and turned to Mycroft.

"Did the captain have any other properties under his name?"

"Not that I know of – but the police doesn't know where the money he embezzled from his "clients" went. He might have invested in property".

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "Under a different name, most likely. But where in London would an ex-sailor prefer to live?"

The answer was easy. Near the river, of course.

After Sherlock had gone through the rest of the house – no clues, but that was to be suspected, after all, it was Moriarty they were dealing with, and he certainly only used the best hit men – they left through a window at the back, careful to close it behind them.

"How are you?" Sherlock hissed as they made their way through several back alleys to a main road where they could catch a cab back to the mansion.

"What do you mean?" Mycroft whispered back.

Sherlock grinned. "I just wondered whether you were alright, not being used to legwork."

"Sherlock, why don't you go look for a cab?" Mycroft suggested, secretly enjoying the spark of good-natured mischief in his brother's eyes. It had been a long time since he had seen something similar in his Sherlock's face.

His brother did what he was told and they returned to the mansion and Mycroft's laptop to search for any properties Carey might have hidden from the police and his clients.

"It wouldn't be under his real name..." Sherlock muttered, leaning back in his chair in the living room, holding his hands in prayer position.

Mycroft was tempted to answer "Really?" but decided against it while he was busy searching for any property near the Thames that had been bought during the last two years – since Black Peter had started his investment scam.

"Do you have any idea how to narrow this down?"

Sherlock didn't seem to have heard, but Mycroft knew better. His brother was thinking and occasionally mumbling to himself.

He suddenly looked at Mycroft, his eyes sparkling.

"Try "Melville". He wouldn't change his first name, I think. So Peter Melville it is".

"Why?" Mycroft asked, stupidly, against his will (he never spoke before he had thought about what he was going to say); in the next moment he realized that he was starting to sound like John Watson. Not only that, but, in a way, he had acted like John Watson too in the last few hours. Somehow he and Sherlock must be so connected in Mycroft's mind that he was subconsciously trying to fill the gap as best as he could.

When he left, Sherlock would never be able to get in touch with John Watson, though, and the enormity of the doctor's death presented itself anew to Mycroft's mind. Until he had arrived here, he had never known how thankful he was to John Watson.

"My?" Sherlock sounded concerned and Mycroft shook his head. "Sorry? What did you just say?"

Sherlock sensed that he didn't want to talk about it and repeated, "He obviously adored Melville – he had his complete works in his bookstand, and "Moby Dick" must have been one of his favourites, judging by the worn look of the pages and the prominent position".

Mycroft nodded and checked. It didn't take him long to find it.

"South bank of the Thames, bought one and a half years ago, under the name of Peter Melville, paid for from an account under the same name..." after a few more clicks, he added, "with money Peter Carey transferred there".

Sherlock smiled and sprung up. "Let's go".

"Sherlock, wait" Mycroft said when his brother was already halfway through the door. Sherlock came back.

"Moriarty could have found the house too. And so far, there has been no report of a break-in in the house, so if he does know, he hasn't done anything about it. Yet". Sherlock clearly hadn't thought of this in the adrenaline rush, maybe the first of his adult life, and he blinked.

"You think it might be dangerous" he stated.

"Of course. Sherlock, we are dealing with a dangerous man".

He could see Sherlock, despite knowing better, had still trouble believing Moriarty would hurt him. Mycroft sighed.

"Sherlock..."

"I know" Sherlock huffed and sat back down.

"So are you suggesting we don't continue this investigation?" he asked.

"Of course not" Mycroft replied. "I just wanted to make sure – "

"That I know the risk it entails?" Sherlock suggested and he nodded.

"Thanks, My". He smiled. "You are a good brother, no matter what you might think of yourself".

Before Mycroft could answer – he wouldn't have known what to answer, anyway – he sprang up and said, "Now, come on. We have some breaking and entering to do".

This time Mycroft followed him out of the room and the house.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock was already impatiently waving down a cab when Mycroft stepped out of the house. He was obviously thrilled by the chase, although Mycroft couldn't say whether he was really aware of the threat Moriarty posed. He knew Jim wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who dared stand in his path and had told Sherlock so; the question was whether his brother truly understood what this meant. He was not stupid, but he was emotional, and the last time Mycroft had Sherlock seen truly emotional about anything to do with Moriarty had ended with him faking his death.

"We need to get the list before Moriarty, or rather his henchman, does" Sherlock stated while they drove to the crime scene, once again proving that he certainly possesses the ability to state the obvious in every reality. Mycroft would have told him so, but then he remembered John – loyal, brave John – and what he would have done and simply nodded. Maybe Sherlock needed someone he could explain everything to.

"Do you think he might – " Sherlock hesitated, and Mycroft knew what he was asking.

"He might very well try it tonight" he answered. "If Moriarty knows about the list. The hit man he hired probably didn't look into Carey's diary, but he might have, or Jim might know about the house through some other channel – he is good at what he does – and simply want to make sure he didn't overlook anything. So, yes, someone besides us might try to break into this house tonight."

When Sherlock didn't say anything, he quietly continued, "If you don't want to put yourself in danger, I understand. You could get out and – "

"No" Sherlock replied determinedly. "I said I was going to help you, and I will. It's just – I'm not used to danger, being a scientist".

He smiled. "I can't deny it's fun though, this consulting detective business. And..." he grew serious again "Jim killed a young boy. Even if we can't prove it – there has to be some form of justice". He turned around and looked out the window, and Mycroft left him alone. He, after all, was the one who would return home and not have to live with the fact that his best friend was a murderer, that his whole world had been turned upside down in a day; Sherlock would still need some time to come to terms with all of this.

They were silent until they arrived near the house. As before, they walked the last block.

"No one knows about the house" Mycroft said, "so there should be no guard. Better be careful, though".

Sherlock nodded. When they arrived, they saw that indeed there was no guard and Sherlock quickly opened the door losing his tools. Even though they had closed the door, they only used their flashlights; a neighbour might get suspicious if he saw the lights on so late at night.

"We are searching for a hand-written list..." he mumbled, his eyes scanning the living room.

"He could have hidden it anywhere" Mycroft sighed, once more reminded why he didn't like legwork. They could be stuck here for hours looking for the list.

Sherlock apparently didn't feel the same – he was looking through the living room, almost bouncing around, checking every place it could be hidden. Mycroft decided to go upstairs; it was unlikely that Sherlock would miss something in the living room.

After fifteen minutes, he was sure Carey hadn't hidden anything in his bedroom. He was equally sure that the man had been used to living alone and that he preferred the same dark furniture Mycroft had in his real house. It wasn't exactly pleasant to realize that, without Sherlock and his friends, his life would be just as empty as the captain's had been.

He quickly went through the other rooms, but found nothing. He returned downstairs to find Sherlock looking behind the pictures on the wall. Finally, he sat down and sighed.

"Any luck?" Mycroft shook his head. "Let's look at it from a different angle" he suggested. "What do we know about Peter Carey?"

Sherlock looked at him. "He was a loner, he liked to read, he didn't like technology, his favourite author was – " Suddenly he sprung up and dashed in a corner. "His favourite author was Melville!"

He took a little porcelain figure in his hands and showed it to Mycroft. "Who do you think is that?"

Mycroft frowned, looking at the small wooden leg. "Captain Ahab, I suppose – " he looked at Sherlock. "You think?"

"Only one way to find out". Sherlock flung the figure on the floor, his pieces scattering around the room. But, where it had first touched the ground, the largest piece, the one with the small wooden leg, remained, and something stuck out of it –

A piece of paper.

Sherlock took it, his eyes sparkling. "Stupid of me, I really could have thought of it before..." he muttered, his eyes already looking over the list. "If we are right and the one who asked Moriarty to deal with Carey was one of his clients, he's on the list. We'll have to go through all of them".

Mycroft nodded and was about to say something when –

Someone broke the kitchen window. The brothers looked at each other and quickly hid on either side of the door, communicating without words what they had to do.

They heard the man's steps slowly come closer and Mycroft's hand tightened on his umbrella. Either this was one of Moriarty's minions or the hit man himself. Either way, he wasn't about to let anything happen to Sherlock.

His little brother probably couldn't even fight in this reality. Or defend himself. And they couldn't use the gun – aside from the fact that they neither wanted to hurt nor kill the intruder, a neighbour might hear. They would have to subdue him with their bare hands – and their flashlights.

The door opened, and he could feel Sherlock tense despite standing on the other side. When the man walked into the living room, he slowly raised his flashlight, prepared to struck –

But Sherlock beat him to it. With a few swift movements, he had hit the man on the back of his head. The intruder staggered forward, and Sherlock lunched at him, knocking him on the floor. Mycroft turned on his flash-light –

Only to be confronted by Sherlock and Colonel Sebastian Moran fighting on the carpet.

Of course. Moran.

Mycroft felt disgusted just looking at the man Moriarty had described as his "pet" on more than one occasion. He should have known the ex-soldier was still working for Jim; maybe he had thought he wouldn't be because John was gone and it seemed strangely unfair (if one could say that, talking about Moriarty) that the consulting criminal should have his ex-soldier while the consulting detective had not.

But he would worry about it later; he needed to help Sherlock subdue him first.

Suddenly, Sherlock rolled away from Moran, breathing heavily, rolled almost into a ball; the sniper must have punched him in the stomach.

Then he sprung at Mycroft, but thankfully he hadn't forgotten all his years of self-defence training – there were some things you had to know when you were the "British Government" – and managed to keep him in the room long enough for Sherlock to recover and beat him with his flashlight again and again until Moran collapsed, which wasn't easy because Mycroft had had to drop his flashlight and Sherlock was obviously worried of hitting his brother.

"Do you know him?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.

Mycroft answered, leaning against the wall, "Yes, I do. He's Moriarty's best man. A sniper. Moran".

He had mentioned the ex-soldier during his explanation about Moriarty's web, and Sherlock nodded. "Do you think he recognized us?"

"Unlikely. He might know you are – " he saw Sherlock flinch and quickly changed his sentence to "acquainted with Jim, but there wasn't enough light for him to recognize us".

"What now?" Sherlock asked, looking at the sniper's prone body. "We can't just leave him here".

"What choice do we have? We can call an ambulance from the next phone box we see" Mycroft replied, and Sherlock nodded, while still looking at Moran uneasily. He was obviously not used to seeing people hurt, much less to hurting people himself.

"Sherlock – we broke in here, just like he did – "

"I know" Sherlock interrupted and suddenly swept past him. Mycroft had trouble keeping up with him.

They left through the front door – Sherlock locking it behind them – and walked to the nearest phone booth. Once, Mycroft asked "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine" was all Sherlock said, staring straight ahead. The thought occurred to Mycroft that he might have liked to be a consulting detective, but that he had only just now realized how dangerous it could be, despite Mycroft's warnings.

He made the call while Sherlock stood in front of the phone, fidgeting, looking at the pavement. As they made their way away from the house, Sherlock walked behind Mycroft on purpose, instead of beside him, and he was starting to fear that he never should have put his brother in this position, when he suddenly walked up to him and quietly apologized.

"What for?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock gave him a weak smile. "I wasn't exactly useful as soon as it got dangerous, was I?"

"You knocked out one of the best snipers the British army has ever had – you were definitely useful" Mycroft answered.

Sherlock smirked. "I only could subdue him because you – what were you doing, exactly?"

"It's called baritsu" Mycroft replied. "It has been useful to me on a number of occasions".

"I can imagine" Sherlock mumbled.

They arrived at the house without incident, and immediately started going through the list, Sherlock reading out the names and Mycroft looking what he could find.

Eventually they found what they were looking for.

It was the seventh name on the list.

"Patrick Cairns" Mycroft said, "Lost a lot of money... eventually his house. He must have been rather angry".

"Angry enough to have him harpooned?" Sherlock inquired.

"He was convicted of GBH ten years ago and has been implicated in several cases of petty crime since then..."

"Connected to Moriarty, perhaps?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft shrugged. "Impossible to tell, I am afraid. But he might know where to find him should the need arise".

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft could see that he was tired. He had forgotten that this Sherlock seemed to eat and sleep regularly; aside from his experiments and his work, he was obviously not used to long hours.

"Why don't you get some rest" he suggested as Sherlock stifled a yawn.

"Only if you do, too" Sherlock argued. Mycroft wanted to protest but could see that his brother would be stubborn and eventually pass out on the sofa if he didn't comply, so he went upstairs with his brother.

Sherlock opened the door to his room, then turned around and looked at him.

"My?" He hesitated

"Yes?" Mycroft asked, wondering what Sherlock could possible ask.

"If – I mean, of course we are going to try and get you back in your world, and then my brother will hopefully resurface – but if not – if it doesn't work – and you are stuck here and he is – will you – leave?"

"London, you mean? The country, perhaps?" Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft understood. He had a history of leaving Sherlock behind, the Mycroft in this world hadn't. Sherlock was worried he would leave and he would be alone – without any brother.

"No, Sherlock" he said, quietly, "I already left once, I won't do it again".

Sherlock smiled and wished him good night before retreating to his room. Mycroft looked at the closed door and sighed. This Sherlock believed him –

But his brother wouldn't, should he tell him the same one day.

He had no reason to.


	15. Chapter 15

Mycroft slept badly that night; just the thought that Moriarty was out there, doing what he had always done, was enough to keep him from rest.

And Sherlock being more or less unprepared for the wrath the consulting criminal might unleash on him – Mycroft would eventually leave, hopefully. Would his alter ego be able to look after his little brother? Would he even believe the story Sherlock would tell?

Suddenly, he wasn't sure anymore whether leaving or staying was the right thing to do. He didn't even know where the Mycroft of this reality had gone, maybe he had taken his place and Sherlock would end up alone in a world where his best friend was a dangerous criminal...

And where Moran was at large and probably able to identify him. Moran was a trained soldier, after all; maybe he had picked up something, the way Sherlock moved, the way he and Mycroft worked together –

And Sherlock was defenceless. He hadn't even learned a single move of self-defence, most likely, and he would be lost without –

And then Mycroft realized what he was thinking and hated himself for it.

He was ready to stay here, to condemn this reality's Mycroft to death, perhaps, because this world was easier for him. Because it would be nice to wake up in a world where Sherlock trusted him, believed in him. Because it was pleasant, had always been pleasant, to imagine a world where Sherlock might be able to look him in the eyes without remembering what he had done.

But what about Mrs. Hudson? True, he might be able to organize protection for her – in fact, he would be able to do that, in just a few minutes – but she would always look over her shoulder, wondering whether her husband would come back to finish what he had started.

What about DI Lestrade? He was lost, he didn't care about anything, and the only man who could have saved him from that fate, the Sherlock of Mycroft's world, didn't exist, would never exist, couldn't exist. Maybe he would eventually be "let go" because he couldn't keep his mouth shut around witnesses or suspects, and what then? He would live a life at the side of a wife who didn't loved and whom he didn't love, spending the rest of his years wondering what he could have done better or different, never knowing what had passed him by.

What about John Watson? He had died because nobody had needed him; because no one had made him feel alive. He had killed himself because he had seen no other option, because all he had done was staring at the wall, wondering why nothing ever happened to him. He had died because Sherlock wasn't the Sherlock Mycroft knew.

Mycroft wasn't ready to live with that knowledge. No, he had to return to the reality he knew; he had to return to Sherlock and Sherlock's friends who had somehow become his friends over time too. He had to live with what he had done. He had to live with leaving Sherlock behind. He deserved it, and he slowly realized that he actually preferred his world. This world's Sherlock was happy, it was true, but he had never looked as alive as he had when he had been investigating the case with Mycroft. He wanted Sherlock to feel alive, even if he hated him for it.

Just as he wanted his friends to be happy and alive.

And it gave him a stab in the heart to know that he would be able to escape it, would wake up in a world where John Watson lived and had found a purpose in his little brother and DI Lestrade was good at his job and happily divorced and where Mrs. Hudson was safe and busy making tea or looking after her tenants; this world's Sherlock didn't have that privilege. He would always remember what they could have been, would always know what Moriarty had done. Maybe he would have grown old and never realized what his best friend was really like; there was every chance Moriarty would never have touched him, he was, after all, his human alibi. But Mycroft had made this impossible. He would always know, always remember; Mycroft had destroyed his happy ignorance.

Perhaps he was destined to be the destroyer of Sherlock's happiness, no matter in which world he happened to be.

These thoughts and others kept running around, going under, resurfacing in his head, while he was lying in his bed, or rather his alter ego's bed, half-asleep, half-awake, unable to get some real rest when someone knocked on his door.

He answered "Enter" more feebly than he would have liked and it was the Sherlock he didn't know who opened the door.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and Sherlock gently asked, "Trouble sleeping too, then?"

He came over and sat on Mycroft's bed – another thing the Sherlock he knew would never have done – and Mycroft swallowed and nodded.

"What were you thinking about?" Sherlock inquired, and Mycroft found that, looking into this open, trusting eyes, that he simply couldn't lie.

"I was thinking that I better never have come".

Sherlock frowned. "Well" he finally answered, "While I can honestly say I would have preferred my brother not to disappear, I certainly am rather content with knowing what Jim was up to the whole time".

Mycroft smiled warily. "You might say that, but –"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm a scientist, no "buts". I'm on the side of the truth."

Mycroft was silent, and Sherlock hesitantly squeezed his hand. "It's alright. I prefer knowing to not knowing".

Mycroft nodded, and Sherlock smiled. "I'm sure your brother does, too. And I'm sure he isn't angry with you".

"Don't get me wrong, but you are hardly in a position to judge my brother's opinion" Mycroft replied automatically, and Sherlock laughed.

"Maybe not, but I am reasonably sure I could never blame you for something you saw as necessary".

It wasn't much, but it was enough to make Mycroft relax, and say, "I am reasonably sure your brother is proud of you".

Sherlock smiled again. "If you say so". He stood up. "I think – I think I can sleep now. Good night, Mycroft" and with these words, he closed the door.

Mycroft closed his eyes and slept.

When he woke up it was almost seven am. He quickly stood up, had a shower and dressed – in a suit again, because he couldn't imagine wearing anything different – and went downstairs were Sherlock was already preparing breakfast. For a moment, the considered declining again; then he decided to eat a piece of toast at least. Sherlock smiled but said nothing.

"Do you think Moran knew what hit him?" he asked after a while, and Mycroft shook his head. "He might be aware of your existence – he is Moriarty's right-hand man – but he wouldn't have seen. Not if all he had to go on were two silhouettes in a flashlight beating him up." Sherlock smirked. Then he looked at Mycroft, his eyes curious. "What do we do now?"

Mycroft would have thought it obvious, and almost said so, but then again, Sherlock was a new consulting detective. So he took a deep breath and said, "I think it's time we pay Peter Cairns a visit".

Sherlock beamed. "So we scare our suspect?"

"Yes" Mycroft confirmed, "That is exactly what we'll do".

It was a distinct possibility that Cairns would call Moriarty as soon as they showed up – but maybe they would be able to convince him to provide evidence against him. They simply had to try.

Before they left, Mycroft checked what had become of Moran and announced, "He is in custody. You didn't harm him, so he was arrested as a burglar after the check-up".

"At least one problem out of the way" Sherlock commented, and Mycroft chose not to tell him that Moriarty had more than enough snipers at hand, should the need arise.

They found a cab and drove to Cairns' address. When he opened the door, he seemed to know what was awaiting him; at least he looked afraid. Maybe, Mycroft thought, he had known that telling someone to get rid of Carey wasn't exactly the best way to deal with his problem.

"Mr. Cairns, I presume?" he asked, and the man's eyes widened. He had obviously decided to take a path he couldn't follow through; he was shaking before Mycroft and Sherlock had even told him who they were.

"Are you the police?" he squeaked, and Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes before replying, "No, Mr. Cairns, not at all. But we know what you did".

He was getting better at this, Mycroft realized. Or at least he could make people uncomfortable just as quickly as his Sherlock.

Cairns grew pale and started to stammer. "I – I didn't – I just told him that I wanted to – "

"Relax, Mr. Cairns" Mycroft said, realizing that the man wouldn't be able to finish the sentence. "What did you want?"

"To have Carey out of the way" he answered, quietly.

"And who did you tell to make him go away?" Sherlock inquired before Mycroft had the chance to say anything.

Cairns had to hold on to the door to keep standing up. "Mor – "

A shot rang out and Cairns dropped down to the floor, a bullet between his eyes. Mycroft jumped on top of Sherlock, holding him down, but now further shots were fired, and after a minute, he deemed it safe to stand up and walk over to their witness. Their now useless witness.

He looked at Sherlock who was slowly getting up on his feet. Their eyes met and they knew they were thinking the same thing.

Not only did Moriarty have other snipers than Moran and one of them had kept an eye on Cairns, probably because the consulting criminal had known he was a risk –

But Moriarty knew, or would soon know, that they were on to him.


	16. Chapter 16

They called the police, already knowing they could do nothing. The sniper must be long gone by now, and they knew perfectly who was responsible – but they couldn't prove it. They couldn't even tell anyone Moriarty was the one who had ordered the hit on Carey. No one would believe them.

All they could do was stand around, looking at Cairns' body, waiting for the police to show up.

"He knows" Sherlock stated quietly. Mycroft nodded. Before he could say anything, Sherlock continued, "It's alright. I know it would be dangerous".

Only it wasn't alright. Sherlock would have been safe without him, and Mycroft tried to fight the temptation of adding "once again" to this thought.

Things, however, were about to become more complicated. He should have known, really; ever since he had entered this strange world everything had gone wrong, and so DI Lestrade got out of the police car that arrived a few minutes later.

His eyes widened when he saw Mycroft, but he didn't let on that he recognized him, either because he realized that there was something he didn't know about going on or because he simply didn't care.

It was the indifferent glance he bestowed on Sherlock that made Mycroft's grip on his umbrella tighten, though. Every thought in his head told him how wrong this was, how utterly impossible that Lestrade should look at Sherlock as if he wasn't really there at all, and Sherlock stare at Lestrade with only mild curiosity. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. Nothing was.

"Who are you?" Lestrade asked abruptly, and Mycroft replied automatically, "Mycroft Holmes. This is my brother Sherlock".

The DI nodded and looked down at the body with indifferent eyes. "He was shot in front of you?"

"Yes. Twenty-two minutes ago".

"What were you doing here?" Lestrade's voice was cold, calm, uncaring, and Mycroft had thought he couldn't feel worse about this version of the DI, but he suddenly did.

"Paying a visit" Sherlock answered quickly. "A... mutual friend asked us to bring him a message".

Anyone who had a brain would instantly have realized this was simply ridiculous. People had phones. But Lestrade obviously didn't want to think about it and he knew just from the angle of the wound that Sherlock and Mycroft couldn't be the killers. So he took down their address and sent them on their way.

Mycroft couldn't resist saying, "By the way, your wife is cheating on you. In case you should care" as he turned around. He hated himself for it in the next moment, but at least he was rewarded with a surprised expression on the DI's face.

As they left the crime scene, Sherlock inquired, "Is this the DI I supposedly helped?"

"Yes" Mycroft replied bitterly.

Sherlock hummed. "I supposed he is more polite in your world?"

Mycroft had to hide a smile – they were walking away from a crime scene, they couldn't start giggling – and continued walking, wondering whether Lestrade would even bother to keep up the appearance of an investigation.

They walked in silence for some time until Sherlock said, "I suppose we'll have to wait for Jim's move now. He does love his games".

Mycroft ignore the shiver running down his spine when he heard his brother talk about Moriarty's "games" so casually and thought about it. It was true; this Moriarty wouldn't be so dumb them and have them killed. At least not yet. First of all, as far as the world knew, he and Sherlock were friends, so he would be a subject in the investigation, which he would clearly which to avoid; and then –

Sherlock was right. He enjoyed his games. And that he had kept up the appearance of Sherlock's best friend for years, decades even, and had given him the skull of his first murder victim certainly proved that he still liked to play. He would be curious, he would want to know more about how Sherlock found out, about how much Mycroft suspected. They were offering a distraction.

A distraction from a life that had perhaps become too dull already, without a consulting detective to makes things interesting. Now he had one.

And they had no doctor. And no DI, come to think of it.

He didn't know what Sherlock was thinking about, although he guessed his brother was pondering the same things he was. As it turned out, he was only partly right, because all of a sudden Sherlock asked, "This DI... he seemed rather..." he stopped, obviously looking for the right word, and Mycroft suggested, "Cold? Indifferent? Uncaring?"

"Something along those lines" Sherlock smirked, then shook his head. "It's just – I only just realized –"

He stopped, opened his mouth to continue, closed it again, apparently confused by his own thoughts. Mycroft could almost see them fly by behind his eyes, too quick for his brother to catch them.

Finally, Sherlock continued. "Before, it was just a story, you understand? And in a way it still is, because it is certainly difficult to believe. But on the other hand... I've seen him, now. And he's there; he isn't just a headstone".

Mycroft managed not to wince. Should he ever tell this story once he'd returned, he would make sure to leave John out of it.

"And – " Sherlock shook his head. "It's just a strange feeling to think I actually changed a life because I wasn't there. If that makes any sense at all".

"Trust me" Mycroft answered, thinking of his Sherlock and the drugs and the lost years, "It does".

"So you have any idea who shot Cairns?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject.

Mycroft shook his head. "Moran is in custody, but I'm sure he has more than enough other snipers. It's impossible to tell".

"I thought so" Sherlock commented. "Really how big is his web anyway?"

"If it's as large as I remember... taking it down might be a bit difficult. We are only two after all".

Sherlock waved a hand in the air. "We are Holmes. You must realize that this means we can do more than most people".

Mycroft smiled and they finally caught a cab and went back to the mansion.

Waiting was tedious; Mycroft kept glancing out the window or at his phone, despite knowing that this was exactly what Moriarty wanted them to do. He made them wait so they would be nervous.

Sherlock wasn't doing too well. He was used to waiting for an experiment to finish, or for certain chemicals he needed to work; he wasn't used to have a psychopath play with his mind.

They sat in the living room for most of the day, not talking, wondering what to do if Moriarty showed up. If he openly declared war.

When the doorbell rang, both of them jumped, and Mycroft gave Sherlock a look to indicate that he should stay in the living room at all costs. Sherlock didn't seem to like the idea, but eventually gave in when he saw his brother would not be denied. He sat down again, something in his eyes telling Mycroft that he would come out as soon as he heard anything suspicious.

Mycroft went into the hall and opened the door –

Only to be confronted with someone he had not been expecting.

"DI Lestrade?" he asked, confused, and the detective nodded. "Mycroft Holmes".

Mycroft would be more impressed if the fact that the DI found out where he lived didn't send the warning bells ringing in his head.

"Yes. Why are you here, Inspector?"

Lestrade sighed. "May I come in?"

Mycroft stepped aside and Lestrade entered the hall, looking around –

Looking around with obvious interest.

Just when Mycroft had thought this world couldn't surprise him anymore.

Then again, DI Lestrade had always found ways to surprise Mycroft. He was the only one who had ever chastised him for letting his little brother take drugs and then proceeded to take the matter into his own hands. And he hadn't thrown Mycroft out of his office or called for backup when he had come to the conclusion that he was dealing with a mad man and not someone who was investigating a complaint against him.

"How do you know where I live?" he finally asked, because it was the foremost question in his mind, even though he should probably rather have demanded what the DI was doing here. But his address had always been protected - ever since he had moved into the mansion - and he had certainly not told Lestrade where to find him.

DI Lestrade gave a rather self-satisfied smile. "I figured there couldn't be that many posh suit-wearing umbrella-wielding articulate guys out there, and you'd been at the Yard, so I asked around. Turns out, Anderson of all people recognized your description. Apparently he'd been to a lecture on some science stuff your brother gave. I phoned various labs. One of them had your brother's address, and he's a witness. As you are".

Mycroft looked at him, taken aback, and Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "So, are you going to show me in a room where we can talk or not?" he asked, indicating the direction of the living room with his head.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock had stood up and was waiting for them right at the door of the living room, shooting Mycroft a confused look. He shrugged.

"Detective Inspector, won't you sit down?" he asked and Lestrade did so, looking at each of them in turn.

"So you are the younger brother, right?" he asked Sherlock. "Some kind of scientist, I heard?"

Sherlock nodded, obviously completely at a loss as to where the DI was going. Mycroft couldn't imagine either; after all, if Lestrade would have wanted to contact them for a statement, he could always have called Sherlock on his phone. The lab that had his address (he would definitely have to change that) had his phone number too. Plus, even though Lestrade seemed more interested in his surroundings than the last times he had seen him, Mycroft didn't think he would volunteer to get the statements of two witnesses who hadn't even caught a glimpse of the killer.

Suddenly a possibility he really should have thought of before came to his mind. How had Lestrade described him? "Posh, suit-wearing, umbrella-wielding..."

"If I told you" the DI said at that moment, "that a burglar was attacked last night in the house near the South Side of the Thames and he couldn't say much about his attackers, only that there were two and one wore a suit and carried an umbrella as well as a flashlight and was a great fighter..." He looked straight into Mycroft's eyes. "What would you say?"

Thankfully he wasn't looking at Sherlock, because the face of his brother showed plainly the shock and panic he was feeling; Mycroft wouldn't have expected anything different. He had never had to hide his emotions from the world, therefore he had never learned.

Mycroft, however, had.

"Really?" he asked, nonchalantly. "While I am certain it was rather inconvenient for the burglar, I don't see why it should concern me".

"I think you do" Lestrade answered calmly, "What do you think, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, looking at Sherlock, but his brother had realized how to act by now and looked at him frowning.

"I'm afraid I don't understand".

Lestrade sighed. "Can't we just quit the game? It all seems a bit too much to be a coincidence. You show up in my office, pretty much do nothing but talk to me like we know each other" so he had noticed something, Mycroft had obviously not given the DI enough credit "then the burglary happens and who do I find at my next crime scene? What are you doing? Running around searching for crimes to commit?"

"What you are saying is simply ridiculous" Sherlock replied, completely calm by now. "Mycroft occupies a minor position in the government, and I am rather well-known in scientific circles, if I may say so myself. Why should we break into a strange house to knock out a burglar?"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I never said you were his accomplice".

Sherlock reacted wonderfully, though. He shot back, apparently angry, "My brother raised me. I'm his best friend. Who else would he trust enough to break into a house with?"

Lestrade laughed. It was a strange laugh, somewhere between relief and disappointment, and Mycroft asked himself whether the isolation and the utterly unremarkable life he was leading were slowly taking their toll on the DI's sanity. But when Lestrade looked up and genuinely smiled, Mycroft realized.

He had come here because he was curious about the strange man with the umbrella, more curious than he'd been about anything for a long time, probably. The need to take their statements – he could have written them up from memory, but Mycroft supposed he could always tell his boss that there were some details he needed to clarify – had been an opportunity to find him. He'd had a hunch about the burglar – he was good police man still, despite everything, and he had trusted his instincts. But, while he should have arrested them, the story had only made him more curious.

He was relieved that he didn't have to arrest them and disappointed that he hadn't got the truth out of Sherlock.

And then Mycroft realized something else.

Lestrade was curious about him, interested in him. Mrs. Hudson had immediately told him, a complete stranger, about her husband. Moriarty had mistrusted him from the first.

Did they feel, albeit subconsciously, that he wasn't really of this world? That he had walked down the path not taken? Was that why Sherlock, even though he had called a psychiatrist, had been ready to perform tests on the skull? He could have simply shrugged of Mycroft's accusations. He hadn't. And maybe this had more to do with him feeling that there had always been another choice his brother could have made, and that he had indeed made this choice?

It was a fascinating thought, but sadly not one that would be of any help in his situation. Other than the fact that he suddenly was standing in front of a DI who was fascinated by one, or rather, by the way he was starting to eye Sherlock, two strange individuals and didn't know why. A DI who wouldn't believe and, frankly, was useless against Moriarty.

Lestrade nodded as if he had come to a decision and said, "Good, then. Anything else I need to know about the murder that happened today?"

"Shouldn't you have asked us that at the crime scene, Inspector?" Sherlock demanded to know, and the way he addressed Lestrade – he talked to him like he had used to do before his disappearance. Mycroft frowned. Sherlock probably hadn't enjoyed being accused of a crime (although having committed it) and that was why he was somewhat polite, but aloof at the same time towards the Inspector. Maybe Mycroft wouldn't have cared if he hadn't heard Sherlock talk so freely, so comfortably with Moriarty only a day ago.

Lestrade didn't seem to mind, but then, aside from showing up here and wondering about the break-in, he still hadn't shown any indication of minding anything. He certainly didn't sound enthusiastic about his search for Cairns' killer.

"Maybe I was busy with the corpse, Sher- Mr. Holmes" Lestrade corrected himself quickly, seemingly confused as to why he should address Sherlock by his first name.

"I'm pretty sure that's illegal" Sherlock answered before Mycroft could stop him, but Lestrade only gave a small smile.

"Nice to see you have a sense of humour".

"It's helped me on many occasions" Sherlock answered drily and looked at Mycroft, clearly asking how long they would have to wait before asking Lestrade to leave. Mycroft sighed and realized it would be best for the DI to leave; he could do nothing against Moriarty anyway, and in the worst case scenario he could become a target too, simply because of his ill-timed visit. It was possible Moriarty already had them under surveillance.

"Inspector" he started, "I am afraid we are rather busy, and we have no further information. So if you have nothing else to say – "

"I do". Lestrade stood up. "Cairns was shot by a sniper" he stated. "Be careful. Oh, and..." he came to stood before Mycroft and fixed a stern glance on him. "I knew my wife was cheating on me. The question is, how did you know?"

So that was the reason behind his visit. Mycroft should have known. Lestrade didn't trust because he didn't know him; what he had truly wanted to find out was how he'd managed to find out about his wife.

"First of all, I think you didn't" he said, "You are still married". Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "And second of all..." Mycroft didn't think what he was about to particularly smart, but he'd simply had enough. Enough of Moriarty being alive and committing crimes in London, enough of John being dead, enough of Mrs. Hudson living in fear, enough of Lestrade's indifference that only gave way to something like mild interest when you mentioned he was being cheated on. The DI could do nothing against them anyway.

"Quite frankly" he continued, "I would cheat on my husband too if all he did was sitting around and staring at the wall or paperwork all day".

For a moment, he thought Lestrade might get angry, but the flash he saw in the DI's eyes was gone as quickly as it came.

"Stare at a wall?" he asked. "I do work..."

"You're not doing a very good job, though, I would say" Sherlock interrupted. "You are hanging around the house of witnesses when you could be out there catching the killer. Hardly professional".

"I'll decide what's professional and what's not, Mr. – "

"It's Doctor Holmes for you. I have several PhDs. And I think I now know why the forensic techs who come to the lectures I hold every once in a while look so frustrated all the time".

There was a short moment, probably not longer than a millisecond, where Mycroft suddenly feared Lestrade would shout at Sherlock, despite his calm demeanour. There was something in his face. And Mycroft was not prepared to watch the DI who had done so much for him hit his brother.

But Lestrade simply shook his head, grumbled a "goodbye" and left.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft and smirked. "That's what you get for being a show-off at the crime scene".

Mycroft shrugged. "I am a show-off, Sherlock, and you are too, for that matter, Mr. Several PhDs. It's what we do".

Sherlock smiled. "I suppose you are right."

Because he couldn't help himself, Mycroft asked, "You hold lectures too?"

Sherlock nodded. "Once in a while. This one forensic tech comes to every one of them – he's not an idiot by any means, but a little bit on the slow side. He adores science, though. And he keeps taking notes."

"Is his name Anderson?" Mycroft inquired, remembering Lestrade.

"Yes, why?"

Mycroft managed not to laugh – barely – and changed the subject. "At least Moriarty is free to make his move now Lestrade has left".

The smile fell from Sherlock's face.

"I'm not sure that is good news".

"It's the only news there could be" Mycroft replied quietly, and Sherlock shot him a look he couldn't understand, sighed and went into the kitchen to make tea. While Mycroft would have preferred brandy, he knew he had to keep a clear head.

He accepted the cup Sherlock gave him and wondered what his brother had thought about Lestrade. The impression could hardly have been favourable, but he had been polite to a certain extent. Mycroft knew this Sherlock to be nearly always polite, however. All in all, it was far from likely that Lestrade and Sherlock could become something like friends, and strangely this thought bothered him more than the DI being so callous.

There was no point in conjecture, so he had just decided to ask Sherlock if he wanted to eat anything – his brother looked healthier but was still rather thin – when a stone came flying through the living room window and almost hit Mycroft.

Sherlock sprang up and ran to the shattered window, peering out while Mycroft took the stone and saw there was a piece of paper attached to it.

Typical. Trust Moriarty to be overly dramatic. He could have texted, but no, of course he had to have someone throw a stone through their window.

The message was simple enough.

_Time to chat, Big Brother. Westminster Abbey, ten pm._


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock immediately insisted on going with him and Mycroft, aware that his brother's stubbornness meant that he would not succeed in convincing him otherwise, tried anyway.

"You can't come with me to Westminster Abbey. The note was explicitly for me. And Moriarty will surely bring his snipers, possibly even Moran. He is probably bailing him out as we speak".

"All the more reasons for me to come with you" Sherlock replied, his face slowly gaining colour due to his agitation, once more walking around the living room because he couldn't sit still when he was excited.

Mycroft, still sitting on the sofa, watched his brother's progressed with his usual calm. He sighed. Sherlock couldn't come with him. It was too dangerous.

The words Mrs. Hudson had spoken to him in the Irene Adler case so long ago. _Family is all we have in the end._ She had admonished him for sending Sherlock into danger, and quite rightly so. A few months later, for all his efforts to protect his brother, he had let a criminal mastermind free to obsess over Sherlock. He had put his work over his family. The Mycroft in this world hadn't, and he wasn't going to change that. If this world was real – he still had his doubts, but on the other hand, there had been no indications that he was walking through a hallucination, like place and time changes – then this world's Mycroft was probably stuck in some sort of limbo, waiting for him to leave so he could finally return home. And he certainly wouldn't appreciate putting his brother in danger. He had protected him all his life, and Mycroft couldn't allow himself to put all the work he'd done at risk.

So he looked at Sherlock and simply said, "There is no reason you should be there. Aside from the danger. You don't know how to defend yourself, you don't know how to use a gun. You are a scientist Sherlock, not a crime fighter. It would be better if you stayed behind".

Sherlock's face darkened. "And?" he asked. "We both know that if Moriarty wanted to kill us we would probably already be dead – I could look out for his associates, stay outside..."

"What for?" Mycroft interrupted him. "There is nothing you could do". He hesitated for a moment, knowing what would be enough to wound his brother, before finally adding, "You would be utterly useless".

"So that's how it's going to be?" Sherlock snarled. "You didn't leave me behind, I didn't grow up to be a sociopath, therefore it's not worth the trouble of taking me with you?"

His words were supposed to hit Mycroft, and they did, harder than the older Holmes had thought they would. Had it really come to that – did he really think his younger brother useless because he was a functioning member of human society?

The answer presented itself soon enough. No. Because his Sherlock had never been a sociopath; he simply was made more for situations like this, for facing of a madman with a gun and his wits. Other than that...

Mycroft finally had to admit that he would have preferred to have his Sherlock here instead of this version, and not just because he was the more useful one of the two.

His Sherlock was more passionate; his Sherlock was more intense; his Sherlock was more –

His Sherlock was more alive, had more to lose – his position, his friends – which was why he had gladly stood up to Moriarty. He couldn't blame this Sherlock for not wanting him to go to Westminster Abbey alone, but he couldn't drag him into this mess either. He wasn't made for it. He didn't deserve it.

He was a scientist, not a crime fighter. He was made to work in a lab, not stand in front of Moriarty and play games with him.

"I didn't say that" he finally replied, "but you must admit that there's nothing you could do to help me. There's nothing anyone could do. It's highly unlikely that Moriarty just wants to kill me –"

"How can you tell?" Sherlock shot back. "Because you remember he likes to play games? What makes you think this Moriarty isn't different from the one you know? Maybe he'll just shoot you the moment you step into the Abbey. Maybe he just waits for you to do something stupid like that – "

"Maybe you are right" Mycroft answered, "but I am not putting you in danger. You are staying here were you are safe and that is final. What do you think your brother would say under the same circumstances?"

He was manipulating Sherlock. Of course he was. He had manipulated people all his life. But he had to keep him safe because he had never really kept his brother safe. Maybe, just once, he could do the right thing.

Sherlock scoffed and stormed off without saying another word. Mycroft heard him running up the stairs and a minute later his brother started to play the violin. He sat down and rubbed a hand over his face. It was better this way, it was better not to put Sherlock in danger, no matter what he thought. And yet he wished he could have got Sherlock to see things from his side of view. Apparently he didn't even manage to do that even in another reality.

The hours until nine pm – it was better to leave early, he had decided, so he wouldn't keep Moriarty waiting, God knew what the consulting criminal would do when he was kept waiting – dragged. Mycroft tried to ask Sherlock if he wanted dinner, but he didn't even interrupt his violin playing to tell Mycroft no, so he let him be.

His brother did make an appearance when he was leaving however.

Mycroft had noticed that the playing had stopped, but he had been hoping that Sherlock was either brooding or sleeping and wouldn't realize that he was about to leave.

In typical Sherlock fashion though he came down just as Mycroft was taking his umbrella out of the stand, ready to leave.

"It's not just that I don't want you to get hurt, you know" he said so quietly Mycroft almost didn't hear him. "There is also the possibility – my brother is somewhere. Maybe you have somehow taken his place, maybe he has been transported to another universe, but he is somewhere. And if you died – "

He didn't finish the sentence, but Mycroft understood. If this world was real and Moriarty killed him, maybe he would destroy some balance and this Sherlock would lose his Mycroft.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked just as quietly. "Should I let Moriarty carry on?"

"No" Sherlock answered, walking towards him. "Just wait until we have enough on him to arrest him. Prosecute him. Don't go to this meeting, or at least, don't go alone. Please".

And just like that Mycroft found himself in the same situation he had been in years ago. Sherlock was standing in front of him, begging him to take him with him, asking to be allowed to follow him. Once again, he had to make a choice, he had to do what he believed to be better for Sherlock.

And he would make the same decision he had always made. There simply could be no other. He had to leave him behind. He had to protect him. At least this time he knew that it was better to leave him behind. If he didn't return, Sherlock could still try to bring Moriarty to justice. If he did, they could attempt the same. Anyway, he would be safe for tonight.

"No, Sherlock" he told him firmly. "I will be careful" he added, already knowing that it wouldn't assure his brother he would return safely.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He just nodded and went upstairs. Mycroft turned around and left the house, once again not looking back.

He took another cab, wishing he could call Anthea and have her send a swat team. But even Mycroft Holmes had to follow some rules, and he couldn't prove that Moriarty had done all the things he suspected him of. He would probably be let go if he tried to bring Jim down with the help of the Secret Service – politicians were rather sensitive about throwing away tax payers' money as long as the idea didn't come from them.

Westminster Abbey was long closed by the time he arrived, of course. This and his tendency towards the dramatic was what had made Jim choose it as a meeting spot in the first place. He surveyed the area, but found no spots where a sniper could hide. He wasn't surprised to find no guards either. Moriarty always knew the right people.

He entered the empty church, his footsteps echoing through the building, the tombs of kings and queens long gone keeping him eerie company. Moriarty was here, he could feel it. He peered into the darkness, trying to see where the consulting criminal was hiding.

There was only really one place he could be, so Mycroft made his way cautiously towards the altar.

Moriarty was nowhere to be seen.

"I have to admit" his voice came out of the darkness just behind Mycroft and he turned around quickly, "You really act like someone not from this world. Good old My wouldn't have come alone – but he also would never have suspected me in the first place".

Jim stepped out of the shadows, wearing a Westwood suit and gazed at Mycroft, fascination clearly displayed on his face.

"Let's just pretend for a moment I believe the whole "I come from a different world where I left Sherlock behind and therefore we aren't as close"-thing" he continued. "I already know you remember me as a criminal. As what kind of criminal?"

His eyes sparkled, but Mycroft was not about to give the satisfaction of telling him what he had done to Sherlock. What they both had done to Sherlock.

"I see no reason to elaborate since you obviously don't believe me" he answered smoothly and Moriarty raised an eyebrow.

"Really, you were funnier when you didn't know what I was actually doing behind your backs. Although I was a bit disappointed that you hadn't figured it out. You and your brother are supposed to be the most intelligent men on the planet, after all. Well except me". He suddenly grinned. "It was fun, I can't deny that. It was fun pretending to be 'Lockys best friend, listening to all his little troubles with his inconsequential experiments. It was fun sneaking around your house and getting all the information I needed, that the British Government trusted me. It was fun that Sherlock owned the skull of my first murder victim and considered it a gift.

After a while, it started to get boring. What is the use of playing if the other players don't even know they are in the game? So I'm glad you got electrocuted, you see. Nothing like a few thousand volts to spark a flame, right?" Moriarty grinned, happy to have a new plaything, and Mycroft wondered what he was going to do. He couldn't really play with Mycroft the way he had played with Sherlock; and, no matter what, he certainly couldn't discredit him. Mycroft had always been too careful for that.

"So what now?" he finally asked.

Moriarty grinned again. "You continue working on the case. I'll be watching, don't worry. Let's see if you can bring me down".

"Seems like a strange idea for a game".

"But I'm bored, My. Let's leave it at that".

Moriarty smiled, turned around and left. Mycroft wished he could shoot him, but his and Sherlock's friendship with Moriarty was well-known. They would be in the centre of the investigation. Plus he couldn't leave this Sherlock to face all this with another version of him who probably wouldn't know what to do.

So he let him go and then slowly walked out of the Abbey, already wondering what he could possibly do to solve the case.


	19. Chapter 19

Mycroft half-expected to see Sherlock waiting for him at a corner, or even in front of Westminster Abbey, but he didn't. He admitted to himself that he couldn't expect this Sherlock to do the same things his Sherlock would. Apparently this Sherlock respected his wishes which was strange in his own way, and made Mycroft long to be at home. He missed the opposition, as strange as it sounded.

When he arrived at the mansion it was dark; either Sherlock was in his room or he had gone to sleep which was rather unlikely. He was proven right in his assumption when he entered the house and heard music drift down from the first floor. Sherlock was playing the violin again, something from Handel, if Mycroft was right, and it sounded beautiful.

He walked upstairs slowly, not really wishing to disturb Sherlock. Before he had arrived here, it had been a long time that he'd heard his brother play real music; usually when he came to the flat Sherlock would simply make screeching noises on his violin. This Sherlock always played music, made one feel every note, possessed the gift of making the melody hang in the air long after he had ceased to play.

Mycroft knocked on his door as gently as he could, but the music stopped immediately. He waited for a moment, but Sherlock didn't say anything, so he entered.

Sherlock was standing at the window, staring into the night.

"What did he say?" he asked softly.

Mycroft answered "He wants to play. He gives us a chance to solve the case. He will be watching us, of course."

Sherlock turned around. "You accepted".

"I didn't say no" Mycroft said, and Sherlock tensed.

He turned to look out of the window again and asked very quietly, "Would it be so bad if we didn't pursue it? Jim would have no reason to go after us, and we could just keep living our lives."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed, shocked. He had to admit that it was a normal reaction, an all too normal reaction to have come from his real brother. And the possibility of having Moriarty forget about them was tempting, very tempting indeed. But he couldn't let this go, and his Sherlock wouldn't have been able to either. But this Sherlock... could Mycroft blame him for wanting to go back to the easy life he had known before he had shown up? Could he blame him for trying not to be caught up in Mycroft's and Moriarty's game?

Maybe his brother would have been happier all along, if he had had the same attitude towards consulting criminals and meddling elder brothers.

He was about to finally answer when Sherlock turned around once again, shook his head and said "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. Of course he has to be stopped."

"You don't have to do it with me, though".

Sherlock snorted. "And who else is going to help you if not me?"

"I could always ask Anthea" he countered.

"Without evidence that you haven't lost your mind? I'd like to see you try". Sherlock tried to sound angry, but he couldn't help the smirk that appeared on his face, and Mycroft smiled back.

"So you will help me?" he asked. He was rather sure Sherlock would, but he wanted to hear it from him. He wanted to know Sherlock was ready to go after Moriarty, that he knew what it entailed.

Sherlock nodded. "Why not? You only ask me to go after a man I considered my best friend three days ago". His face was serious when he said it, though, and Mycroft knew he would help him.

"I assume" Sherlock finally continued "he didn't give you any clues? It would be fair but somehow I don't think Moriarty would so anything considered "fair"".

Mycroft shook his head. "We will have to figure it out by ourselves."

For a moment, just for a moment, he could have sworn that he saw the familiar spark in Sherlock's eyes. The spark that always came when he was going to solve a crime, the spark that had been there until he had been forced to knock out Moran.

Speaking of Moran –

"I'll see if Moran has been bailed out already" he announced. "He's Moriarty's right-hand man, and, should he be released, will definitely be the one to keep an eye on us".

Sherlock nodded and followed him into his room. Mycroft looked up the information and sighed.

"Moriarty got him out". It wasn't a question, and Mycroft nodded.

"It was to be expected" he said. "Moran is the only man Moriarty trusts – or comes close to trusting, anyway. He wouldn't have allowed him to be in jail for long".

"I'm sure that upset Inspector Lestrade" Sherlock commented, and Mycroft flinched. He would never get used to Sherlock dismissing his friends so easily.

"Sorry" his brother apologized, and Mycroft couldn't say anything because it felt so utterly wrong. Sherlock shouldn't be apologizing to him because he had said something like this about Lestrade; he should care, even though it was a disadvantage, that he had said it.

He shook his head. "No worries".

"You are sure he was the one – " Sherlock started to ask, but Mycroft quickly answered him with, "Yes, I am sure".

Sherlock shrugged. "He just seems a bit..."

"Uninterested? I know".

Sherlock smiled. "I was going to say "utterly incompetent because not caring about what he does in the slightest", but your choice of words was certainly nicer".

Mycroft nodded and continued to read. "He was released an hour ago. Shortly after I left Westminster Abbey".

"At least Moriarty cares for his pets in some degree" Sherlock grumbled. Mycroft swallowed because it was difficult to hear Sherlock say "pet" in this way. John would have been furious.

"I hardly thinks it classifies as "caring"" he muttered. "It does make things a little more difficult, though" he finally added. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "More difficult? I didn't think that possible".

They were silent for a moment, then Sherlock suggested, "You said I worked with the police, right? Any chance we could get your Inspector to agree?"

Mycroft ignored the fact that Sherlock had just decided to call Lestrade "his Inspector" and replied sarcastically, "I don't know. Why don't you go ask him? I'm sure he would be glad to see you again, Doctor Holmes".

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "I simply stated that he could call me by my proper title, if he insisted that he come into our house. Plus, he tried to call me "Sherlock" at one point, remember?"

Mycroft did remember it quite well, but he doubted Sherlock would agree with his theories.

He looked at his watch and decided it was time for them to get a few hours' rest. Sherlock was obviously tired and didn't object. Mycroft lay awake for some time, wondering how exactly they could get Lestrade to let them assist in the investigation until he finally fell asleep.

Sherlock was up before him once again – he might sleep in this world, but he definitely slept less than normal human beings – and said, as soon as Mycroft entered the dining room, "I have to go to the lab. Once of my experiments showed a surprising reaction and the employees don't know what to make of it".

"I see" Mycroft answered, "In this case, you had better go". Sherlock looked at him sceptically and Mycroft was aware that he could probably tell that he was almost relieved to be able to go to Scotland Yard and talk to Lestrade without him. He knew the DI and Sherlock didn't, which would make talking to him alone the easier option.

Sherlock shrugged and turned around. "I'll call you".

"Please do" Mycroft replied quietly, realizing that his indifference had once again hurt this version of his brother who had probably never felt that Mycroft didn't want him around.

He couldn't help it, though, so he pushed the feeling of guilt away and caught a cab to Scotland Yard. There was every reason to suppose that Lestrade would immediately throw him out of his office, but he had to try. And if he showed up in person he could at least force the DI to listen – he would probably hang up if Mycroft were to call him.

No one hindered him as he made his way to Lestrade's office, and Mycroft wondered if this was because no one really cared what happened to the DI. It didn't really make the thought of going in and turning the life of the man upside down again any more pleasant.

He was surprised when the DI called "Enter" after he had knocked. He opened the door and found Lestrade engrossed in a file, apparently trying to figure something out for a change.

He looked at Mycroft and raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing here, Mr. Holmes?"

"I come to offer you assistance in the Cairns and Carey murders" he replied smoothly, closing the door behind him.

Lestrade frowned. "I know how you know about Cairns – you were there – but what do you have to do with Carey?"

Yesterday, after he had seen him out of his house, Mycroft wouldn't have tried to explain. He hadn't even thought he would try even after going to his office, to be honest.

But now –

Lestrade didn't wear his wedding ring, and his desk was... tidy.

He was trying to start working properly again.

So Mycroft took a deep breath and said, "First of all, it was Cairns who put the hit on Carey".

Lestrade closed the file in his hands and gestured towards the chair in front of his desk. "Tell me more".

And Mycroft had the feeling that for the first time since he'd landed in this strange world he may have found an ally.


	20. Chapter 20

If there was one thing that annoyed Sherlock Holmes more than Mycroft's insistence to keep him under constant surveillance to guarantee his "safety", it was the fact that he refused to let Sherlock accompany him to the secret labs he had to check on once a year.

Really, it was ridiculous that Mycroft still thought he couldn't be trusted – he had solved the Baskerville case without even looking at the experiments undertaken in the cellar, hadn't he? And he had hidden three years, dismantling Moriarty's web so his friends could be safe. That was hardly a sign that he was not to be trusted.

He almost drew the bow over the violin in his hands out of frustration, then remembered that John had had a night shift at the clinic and was currently resting and sat it down, sighing. He didn't like to think about those three years, and if that made him more human than he had ever wanted, so be it.

He was back and his – his friends had forgiven him and that was all that mattered.

Mrs. Hudson had simply accepted him back into her life and her flat – true, after she had admonished him for half an hour, but still.

Lestrade had been shocked, but glad that he was alive; it didn't take Sherlock's science of deduction to realize that he had been blaming himself for his suicide. He had started calling him in on cases again as soon as his name had been cleared and he had come back to life officially.

John – John had needed more time. He had been ready to settle down, had been living with his fiancée, had let Sherlock go, and Sherlock would have accepted that fact, no matter what he would have preferred, just as he had accepted the punch the doctor had thrown his way. He had caught Moran with John's help, because his blogger had insisted he do so, but he hadn't called him for almost two weeks afterwards. He had felt that he owed him nor only time to come to terms with him being alive, but also the normal life with Mary he craved.

And then John had shown up at the flat one evening, demanding to hear everything about the three years; what he'd done, where he'd gone... From that point on, he had come more and more frequently. A month later he had started to assist him again. Three months after that, Mary had told him gently but firmly that she wanted a husband who didn't run around London after a madman at all times, and they had decided to split up. John had returned to Baker Street the next day, and, judging from his since then dateless existence, was ready to stay here, where he belonged.

Mycroft –

Their relationship had changed after he had come back, and for the better. They weren't anywhere near as close as John thought siblings should be, but looking at his relationship with Harry, he was hardly the one to give advice.

Sherlock had texted him at the end of the first year, simply because he had been unable to find enough information to figure out where the boss of a particular gang was hiding, not because he had missed home or another sentimental reason like that, or at least that was what he liked to tell himself.

He and Mycroft had – in the words of John Watson – not really "got on" ever since his older brother had left for university. Sherlock wasn't idiotic enough to believe that everything would be different if he had taken him with him – he was a high-functioning sociopath (albeit with some exceptions) but maybe they would have got along better. Sometimes, even though he was loath to admit it, he would like to ask Mycroft for advice; Sherlock might be better at legwork, but Mycroft was the (slightly) more intelligent one of the two of them.

Maybe it was pride that held them both back, in the end; Sherlock wasn't ready to admit he had made a mistake by taking drugs, Mycroft wasn't ready to admit he had made a mistake leaving him behind. Then again, there was no reason they should try to be friends. They shared the same genes; that was hardly a reason to try and repair a relationship that had been ruined more than twenty years ago.

Contrary to what anyone (possibly even Mycroft) might think, Sherlock wasn't angry his brother had told Moriarty his life story. He had had no other options; he had done what he had considered best for the country, best for his position. He didn't have to apologize – even though he had. Or, to be more specific, he had told Sherlock that "he wished he hadn't given Moriarty the information he needed" which was as close to an apology as Sherlock was likely to get or cared for.

"I appreciate that you're trying to be quiet, but to be honest, it's freaking me out. I woke up because there was no noise in the flat" John softly said and Sherlock turned around to find the doctor, looking rested but still a bit sleepy. He smiled.

"I thought you would appreciate the gesture. However, I think you should be used to me being silent – my mind palace, remember?"

John smiled. "you talk while you are in your mind palace, whether I am around or not" he announced, "and, furthermore, the only time you are this quiet is when you are thinking of Mycroft or – " he stopped and frowned, and Sherlock knew his blogger was remembering the three years he'd been gone.

He stood up and walked over, ready to apologize one more time, but John shook his head and smiled. "It's alright. You're here now and that's what matters".

He went to the kitchen to make tea and said, "And just for the record, if I were in Mycroft's position, I would give you access to the labs".

Sherlock snorted. "You live with me, John, therefore you are biased. Plus, I don't think many would agree with you".

"It's my opinion anyway" John answered while he was putting the kettle on.

Sherlock's text alert rang out and he decided to look for his phone himself.

"Next to the skull" John called from the kitchen and Sherlock grabbed it. He read the message and frowned, trying to rationalize the strange feeling in his chest.

"Sherlock? What's going on?" John came into the living room, apparently sensing that something must be wrong. Sherlock wordlessly handed him the phone.

John read the message.

_There has been an accident in the lab. Your brother is currently being checked in the hospital and asking for you.  
A _

She had sent the address of the (naturally) top secret and private hospital too, and John looked at Sherlock. He knew his friend would not say it himself; he knew Sherlock wouldn't admit that he was worried; so he simply said, "I'll put the kettle off, then" and went back into the kitchen. By the time he came out, Sherlock was already wearing his coat and he hid a smile.

Sherlock didn't say anything as they left the flat and caught a cab, and it was John who gave Mrs. Hudson a sign to stay calm and not to worry, although he was rather worried himself. Sherlock cared for his brother; he knew it, but he would not get the consulting detective to admit it, he was sure of that.

So he simply sat next to his friend, his best friend, in the cab, offering silent support while Sherlock looked out of the window and pretended (although John was sure no one but his friends would have noticed he was pretending) not to be worried.

Sherlock was worried a little – he would admit that, despite being rather pointless; if Mycroft had had serious injuries, Anthea would have told him so he would have known to come quickly. He was, however, more confused. Why was Mycroft asking for him? Yes, he was in hospital, but he was merely being "checked", so why would he want to see him? They hardly saw each other without his brother pressuring to take a case or being "caring". True, the "Caring" visits had become more frequent since he had returned – normally they took place when John was at work, he still found it difficult to see Mycroft – but even then, they didn't really talk. And if Mycroft had to tell him something, he could always call or text. So what was going on?

"I have heard that talking can help" John commented, and Sherlock looked at him and raised an eyebrow. John gave him a look that told him he shouldn't act like he didn't know what he meant. He sighed.

"I don't see why Mycroft should desire to see me... And, before you ask, yes, I am a little what ordinary people would probably consider "worried". Happy?"

"Shocked, really" John replied sarcastically, but with a fond smile, and Sherlock smirked back.

They remained in a comfortable silence for the remainder of the journey and arrived at the hospital soon enough. Anthea was waiting for them in the entrance hall, and her face told Sherlock that there was more than she had sent. She had never looked so worried before.

"Anthea? What's going on?" he asked, for once not bothering to pretend. He had known Anthea ever since Mycroft had put her in charge of his surveillance, when he had still been addicted to drugs.

"It's – difficult to explain" she answered. "It's best if you – just come with me". And she turned around and walked away, Sherlock and John (who shot his best friend a worried glance) following her.

During the short walk, Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what had happened to Mycroft and his ideas got more and more gruesome. He was shaken out of his thoughts when John gave his shoulder a light squeeze. He shot him a weak smile and continued walking.

Anthea chose to stay outside and the two of them entered only to find Mycroft sitting on an examination table, with no injuries whatsoever apparent. Sherlock could have sworn he heard John sigh with relief and it might have been that he did the same.

The relief was short-lived, however. Mycroft looked at them and his eyes lit when he saw Sherlock, something that hadn't happened since they were both children. Sherlock, surprised, didn't know what to say, for once (something John would probably have appreciated, if he hadn't worn a similar expression of surprise on his face).

"Sherlock" Mycroft said cheerfully – cheerfully? Since when had Mycroft been anything near "cheerful" when talking to him? – "so sorry to pull you away from work, but I wanted to see you. Really, it was stupid of me; nothing's the matter. Yes, I got shocked, but I was only out for a couple of minutes. Hardly worth mentioning, really. I wouldn't let anyone near Percy's machine, though". He smiled and Sherlock tried to understand why he was acting that way. Mycroft hardly ver referred to his "work" as such. He knew Sherlock had solved their last case yesterday, so why should he apologize? And who was "Percy"?

John decided to interfere and stepped forward, asking the doctor who was busy looking at some x-rays, "What happened?"

The doctor looked up and, obviously having been told to tell Sherlock Holmes and his friend all they wanted to know, answered, "Doctor Trevelyan" John looked at Sherlock, who nodded to indicate that the name was familiar "was showing Mr. Holmes a machine he had constructed when something went wrong and he got an electric shock. He was unconscious for ten minutes".

John nodded and took a look at the x-rays himself. Everything seemed to be fine; Mycroft had been right, nothing was wrong – other than his behaviour, that was. But a slight disorientation was certainly understandable under the circumstances.

"And who are you?" Mycroft asked, and John at first believed he was talking to the other doctor – it would be understandable after the shock he had received. But then he heard Sherlock's breath catch in his throat and raised his head to find Mycroft looking at him curiously. A shiver ran down his spine when he realized that Mycroft really didn't recognize him.

Sherlock replied, his voice calm. "Mycroft, this is Doctor John Watson. My flatmate".

Mycroft turned to look at Sherlock, uncomprehending. "What do you mean, "flatmate"? Did you move out since yesterday?"

"Yesterday?" Sherlock repeated, and John could see he was just as confused as the doctor felt.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, 'Locky. Because yesterday, we lived together in our house, remember, and you certainly had no intention of moving out".

"Mycroft – we don't live together".

"Don't be ridiculous. We have ever since I took you with me when I left for university".

For a moment, John thought Sherlock would faint. He knew about Sherlock's wish to accompany his brother – Sherlock had told him about it, once, briefly – and he knew Mycroft's refusal had caused the first rift between them. If Mycroft believed he had taken Sherlock with him, the shock must have been worse than they had thought.

Sherlock said quietly, "You didn't take me with you, Mycroft. We haven't lived together anywhere since I was eleven". He decided not to mention his addiction. The enforced stay in Mycroft's house could hardly be classified as "living" anyway.

Mycroft frowned, suddenly stood up and walked over to his brother, putting a hand on his forehead. John's mouth felt open and Sherlock flinched.

"Are you alright, Sherlock? You aren't sick, are you?" He turned to John. "Are you a doctor of medicine? Are you looking after him? How long has he been confused?"

"Mycroft..." John said, slowly, "He isn't confused. You are the confused one".

Mycroft shook his head, then looked at Sherlock. "Alright... Well, usually you are convinced more easily when you have the proof laid out before you. Let's go home" he announced and almost left his umbrella behind while walking through the door until the strange doctor reminded him of it. He shook his head. "Can't remember taking it with me" he mumbled. "Anyway" he added, louder, "Come on, Sherlock; don't worry, I'm sure everything will be fine". He smiled, but there was badly concealed worry in his eyes. "You can come along too, John – I can call you John? – if you want".

And he left the room, Sherlock and John following him, both confused and worried.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock and John followed Mycroft without uttering a word, both of them wondering what the elder Holmes wanted to show them. John was worried. He knew, even though the consulting detective tried to hide it, that Sherlock cared for his brother, and Mycroft was – he simply wasn't behaving like Mycroft. The British Government John knew had never looked upon his brother like he trusted him, was glad to see him.

Not that John and Mycroft were friends; in fact, John still bore him a grudge because he had sold his little brother for information.

He could understand it, on some level; he had been a soldier, and he knew what it meant to put his country before everything else. But to put his country before Sherlock... he wouldn't have ben able to do it.

Maybe he was a hypocrite; after all, his relationship with Harry wasn't exactly the one siblings should have either; and yet –

Sherlock and Mycroft – they were different. They had always been different. Mycroft would have been the one person Sherlock could look up to, the one he came to for advice, the one he trusted. And Mycroft had not only left him completely alone – John could understand, university was university – but had barely spoken to him for years afterwards. And then he had forced him to stay in his house and kidnapped all his friends to threaten them.

And then he had sold Sherlock to Moriarty. He had told Sherlock's biggest enemy his life story, and had let him go after he had done it. John was convinced that Mycroft would have been able to hold Moriarty captive for as long as he wanted; the elder Holmes had simply been curious who Moriarty would cal, what he would do, and it had cost his younger brother three years of his life, not to mention what it had cost John.

John swallowed as he thought about the three years alone and how he had finally been ready to move on with Mary only to find Sherlock was willing to let him move on too – it hadn't taken long to see that a life without the consulting detective, or rather, without solving crimes with the consulting detective, wouldn't be life at all, so he had come back. And, to be honest, he wasn't even looking for a relationship right now – he would stay at Sherlock's side, and it was enough.

And now Mycroft was confused, probably hurt, it was difficult to say, and Sherlock was walking beside him, his face grim, his hands clenched into fists. John looked at Mycroft who was walking right in front of them, at his posture – Mycroft usually didn't walk like that; in the moment, he looked like he was taking a stroll. The footsteps John had come to recognize were always strong, confident. Mycroft always had somewhere to get to, he rarely relaxed, and he certainly never strolled like that.

And then John realized.

If Mycroft thought he had taken Sherlock with him all these years –

Maybe he thought he hadn't betrayed him either? Maybe he didn't remember? Either way, he would have to be careful. He couldn't be hostile towards someone who didn't even know what he did.

They finally arrived at Mycroft's limousine. Mycroft politely greeted the driver with his name, which seemed to shock the poor just as much as Sherlock. Most people wouldn't have realized the consulting detective was shocked at all, but John saw the tightening around his mouth and gently laid a hand on his elbow as they got in the car. Sherlock shot him a thankful glance.

The consulting detective didn't know what to think as he got in the limousine and sat down between Mycroft and John. Mycroft seemed to believe that he had taken him with him all those years ago and that he had been living with him. He, living with his elder brother. It was strange just to think about it.

He had no idea what had prompted this delusion; he didn't know what Doctor Trevelyan's experiment had been. Anthea would send him the particulars soon, without a doubt, but he couldn't imagine how an electric shock could make Mycroft see a different life, a life where they "got on", as John would say, a life –

A life, although he tried not to think about it, that might have been if Mycroft had taken him with him. A life they could have had.

Although he wasn't angry about being left behind anymore – or about being sacrificed for the sake of the nation – he had always wondered, in a secret corner of his mind palace, what could have been. If Mycroft had allowed him to come along, if he had lived with his brother – he might have finished his studies. He might have had a regular job.

But, and this was what always brought him back to the present –

From the corner of his eye, he could see John looking out the window of the limousine. The doctor, his doctor, always ready to help him, to nurse his wounds, to look after him –

If Mycroft had taken him with him, he might never have met John Watson because he wouldn't have been looking for a flat share.

And this thought was just inacceptable. John Watson belonged in his life. He couldn't imagine a life where he had never met John.

The doctor had been depressed when he met him, he knew. Without meeting Sherlock, he could have –

Sherlock wasn't prepared for the pain he felt at the simple thought that John might have committed suicide without him. He didn't think that a world without John would be a good one.

And Mycroft hadn't recognized John.

Sherlock bit his lip and stared straight ahead.

Mycroft had given the driver instructions to drive to his house; he was obviously convinced that, once there, he would find proof that he and Sherlock lived together. Perhaps he would come to his senses when he realized they hadn't.

Or it would cause him to lose his mind completely.

Sherlock wasn't often worried, or at least, he didn't admit he was, but imagining his elder brother might lose everything he had always held dear – his work and his mind – he definitely was. He acted like he wasn't, even though it was useless; John had looked through him in a second.

He would have to wait and see, though. See what Mycroft said when he looked at his big, empty house.

Mycroft didn't seem to be concerned at all – or, rather, concerned about himself; he kept shooting Sherlock worried glances, as if he was the one who was confused. Mycroft had never given Sherlock such looks, but he hadn't looked at him with such – fondness before, either, at least not since they were children.

Sherlock, for once, didn't know what to think. He was used to not knowing what to feel – but he had always known what to think.

And having his certainties slip out of his grasp like that was rather disconcerting.

Mycroft left the limousine as soon as it stopped, politely thanking the driver, and Sherlock decided to remind his brother that the poor man needed a raise once he was back to normal; he looked like Mycroft had never talked to him before, which he most likely hadn't.

Just as Sherlock had predicted, Mycroft looked around shocked after he had entered the house, although not for the reason he'd thought.

"What happened to the window?" Mycroft asked.

"The window?" Sherlock repeated, confused. The hall was dark, he would admit that; but his brother had always preferred darker furniture. The windows of the hall were small and didn't let much light in, just as he liked it.

"Yes, Sherlock, the window" Mycroft explained patiently, "the hall is incredibly dark without it. I prefer to see where I'm going..." he trailed of, turned around and started walking towards the dining room. Sherlock followed, John at his side.

Mycroft was standing in the middle of the room, frowning at the furniture. "I'd never have bought this. It's too dark and impersonal". He looked at Sherlock. "'Locky, you know how the room looked before. Tell me you know".

Sherlock simply shook his head, and Mycroft swept past him and up the stairs. John moved to follow him, but Sherlock grasped his arm and shook his head. He knew his brother. Mycroft would want to come to his conclusions alone. He knew where he had gone; there was really no other room he could be looking at but "his" room, as he had called it while Sherlock was forced to stay in his house. He wouldn't be able to see anything else than the proof that Sherlock had not lived there for years, and hopefully realize that he had been hallucinating all along.

He was not prepared for the look on his brother's face as he came down the stairs, and he saw John biting his lip beside him.

Mycroft's face was pale, and he looked at Sherlock like he didn't know what was going on.

"Sherlock – your room... I – Are all the rooms like this?"

Sherlock assumed that he meant "impersonal" or "too tidy" or "boring" so he nodded. Mycroft had to lean against a wall.

"I don't understand..." he said, softly. "Sherlock, we were living together. I left the house this morning when you were still asleep. I certainly furnished it differently."

"Mycroft" John interrupted, realizing that Sherlock didn't know what to say "you received an electric shock less than two hours ago. You're confused. Sherlock doesn't live here, and nothing has been changed. Why don't you go and lie down for a bit?"

He didn't sound hopeful; Sherlock supposed this was because he knew his sleeping habits and suspected, quite rightly, that Mycroft didn't sleep much either. As predicted, his brother shook his head.

"No, thank you... John".

It was difficult to ignore the slight pause Mycroft made before saying John's name, obviously trying to remember whether it was the right one, but Sherlock managed. Barely. John shot him a concerned glance and then nodded at Mycroft.

"How about some tea, then?" he inquired and, before they had had time to answer, walked towards the kitchen. Mycroft apparently wanted to call after him, to tell him where it was located, but after taking a look at Sherlock's face, he decided not to. He slowly came down the stairs and gazed into his brother's face.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and Sherlock was once more taken aback at how quickly Mycroft went from being confused to concerned about him, as if his wellbeing was the most important thing in the world. Barely a minute ago, he had been shocked, unsure; now he was desperately searching his face for an answer so he could help him.

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" he replied casually.

Mycroft's brows furrowed. "When I came down the stairs just now – your face – something is wrong".

He was right, but there was no use in telling him he was delusional again, so Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and tried to smile. "It's been a difficult day".

Mycroft frowned, then smiled back, although it didn't reach his eyes – then again, with Mycroft, it hardly ever did.

"Let's go to the dining room and wait for your friend" he suggested, "Then you can tell me everything".

Sherlock wasn't exactly sure what "everything" entailed, but he nodded, and they made their way to the dining room.


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock and Mycroft didn't say anything until John came into the dining room carrying a tea tray, but it wasn't the silence Sherlock was used to. Normally, if he and Mycroft didn't talk, the space between them was filled with unspoken accusations or insults. This time, though –

This time, Mycroft simply kept staring at the table, apparently wondering what was going on, and he didn't spare Sherlock a glance – normally, his brother made sure that he wasn't trying to steal his phone or looking for government secrets behind his back. But this Mycroft, this strange Mycroft, trusted him – his body language told him so – trusted him enough to let him sit and talk and walk around in his house, trusted him enough to let a man he didn't know make him tea simply because Sherlock had told him he was a friend.

The whole situation was strange, to say the least.

Mycroft had trusted him once, when they had both been children, he didn't doubt that; but, once his brother had gone to university, had barely contacted him for years and finally found him to be an addict, trying to talk sense into him, subsequently forcing him to stay in his house after he had gone through withdrawal –

Mycroft had never trusted him afterwards, not like this, not ready to believe that anyone Sherlock brought with him was allowed to make tea in his kitchen.

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to think logically.

Mycroft had (although he didn't like to admit it) always been better at deduction than Sherlock; and yet – he didn't look at people like he was deducing them , ever since he had received the electrical shock. Instead, he seemed to be trusting them instinctively, as if he wanted to see the best in them – which his secretive, controlling brother would never have done.

And then Sherlock understood.

If Mycroft believed he hadn't left Sherlock behind – had taken him with him – had raised him – if he thought he had a regular "job" (although he still had to find out what Mycroft believed his "work" to be) he might not be a consulting detective, the consulting detective, at all in Mycroft's mind. He would have looked after him, made sure he made his degree, and therefore there would have been no reason to deduce people like they had done when they were children. Sherlock might have grown up to be a philosopher or a scientist, who knew. And Mycroft might just believe that this had happened – he wouldn't be as good as he was at the science of deduction. He wouldn't know John, of course, because there would have been no reason for Sherlock to find someone to share a flat with.

In some ways, Sherlock had to admit, it wasn't awful to imagine himself living with Mycroft, finishing his decree, being recognizes for his work without being questioned about his merits. But, in the end –

He still preferred the life he was leading right now to the one Mycroft obviously thought he had lived for the last twenty years.

He had to make Mycroft remember, even though a part of him – his annoyingly human part – wished he could just as simply forget about Moriarty as his brother had apparently done. The idea was tempting; he wouldn't have spent three years alone, would never have realized how human he was after all –

And yet, in the end, the three years had been an experience that had taught him certain things about his own heart (even though he detested using such an expression; emotions were created in the brain, not in the heart) he wouldn't have thought possible before – before everything.

Mycroft and he had grown what John would call "closer" after his experience; they didn't get on as well as they had when they were children – they probably never would – but they talked without insulting one another, and Mycroft didn't force him to take boring cases anymore.

Strangely, Sherlock found the thought that Mycroft had forgotten all about this progress in their relationship – even if he believed them to be closer than they had ever been – rather disquieting. This Mycroft didn't seem to belong into his world, it was as simple as that.

With this thought, he decided to wait for John and the tea. Thankfully the doctor came into the dining room a few minutes later. Carrying a tray.

Mycroft thanked him politely and happily took the offered cup, and Sherlock tried to ignore the understanding look John shot him. Mycroft would remember soon enough; he knew his brother.

"So" the elder Holmes began after having taken a sip and hummed contently, "explain to me – you think I left you behind all those years ago? And you're living with John? I admit I don't understand yet how our house could have changed that much during a few short hours..." he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. ""Just tell me what you remember about our lives".

Sherlock told him.

He listened patiently, sometimes frowning, sometimes shocked (he almost grasped Sherlock's hand when he talked about his cocaine addiction, but thought better of it). John studied him closely, pretending that he wasn't looking at Sherlock, making sure he was alright, through the corner of his eye in the meantime.

He didn't tell him everything. He stopped talking when he had come to the point of John moving in with him. Mycroft had enough to swallow without reminding him of his role in Sherlock's disappearance or Moriarty.

Sherlock had hoped, expected even, that the tale would remind Mycroft of the truth, but it didn't seem to work. His brother was silent after he had stopped talking. At first. After several minutes of staring at the table, he finally asked quietly, "Just how empty is my life, then?"

Sherlock couldn't have predicted such a reaction. Mycroft recognizing Anthea and his driver proved he was still the British Government in his mind; and the brother he knew would never consider a life full of work "empty". True, he had and Sherlock weren't living together, and they certainly didn't spend as much time together as he believed; but he was always busy. He had no reason to consider his life anything other than fulfilling.

John didn't know what to say either; he kept looking between Sherlock and Mycroft, finally deciding that it would be best to leave the brothers alone for a while, and announced that "he would look what the kitchen had to offer".

Sherlock followed John with his eyes as he left the room; he understood only too well what the doctor was thinking. He was convinced (and perhaps rightfully so) that Mycroft would talk more freely in front of his brother than in front of someone he perceived as a stranger. Plus, the whole situation couldn't be easy for John either. He had sworn to help anyone who might be sick or injured, but he had never forgiven Mycroft for telling Moriarty Sherlock's life story, and Sherlock knew why. John was the most loyal man he had ever met; the thought of betraying a friend or family member had most likely never crossed his head. He wasn't able or willing to understand what had made Mycroft do exactly that. And now Mycroft didn't remember and John must feel that he had to act like he didn't, either, because he didn't want to make Mycroft uncomfortable while he wasn't himself.

"I must admit I rather like your friend" Mycroft said, startling Sherlock out of his thoughts, "even if his attempts to be subtle ar far from that".

Sherlock nodded, not reacting to Mycroft's smile, and the elder Holmes grew serious again.

"Sherlock..." he continued, reaching for his brother's hand, "I know you believe I've lost my mind, I know that the house supports your story – you would never have lived in such a room" Sherlock smirked against his will "But trust me, please. I remember that you lived with me; that you graduated from university; I remember that you became a scientist".

Scientist it was, then. Sherlock had always known it would have been an option if he hadn't left university; nonetheless, it was strange to hear Mycroft talk about his career which he proceeded to do at some length. Apparently he was proud of Sherlock.

Just when the consulting detective had thought the situation couldn't get weirder.

Mycroft was so open, so trusting, so vulnerable – he simply didn't know what to say. He finally settled on "I believe you. I believe that you remember all of this. But, Mycroft – the evidence makes it clear that you are delusional. You have to see it".

"I know what happened all these years ago, Sherlock; trust me".

Sherlock trusted Mycroft, he always had. Perhaps not too much – he hadn't really been surprised when he realized who had given Moriarty the information – but enough to nod, and Mycroft smiled.

Neither of them knew how to recommence the conversation after this, though – both knew they were right, and each of them knew his brother was too stubborn to accept what he had to say.

Sherlock needed a cigarette.

"I need some fresh air" he said brusquely and stood up, already taking the cigarette he kept in his pocket for emergencies and John pretended eh didn't know about out of his suit as he left the dining room, ignoring Mycroft's inquiry where he was going.

John, who was just entering the dining room to tell them what he had found in the kitchen and ask them what they wanted to eat, knew immediately what he was doing, of course. He could allow him to smoke this time, though, he decided. Mycroft was confused and possibly hurt, and Sherlock didn't know what top do.

It must be incredibly frustrating for his best friend.

"Don't worry" he said, and Mycroft turned around, the worry evident in his face, "he'll be back in a few minutes".

Mycroft frowned. "He really shouldn't be smoking, especially if he's convinced that he used to be addicted to cocaine". He sighed. "Well, I must say this day has been a rather challenging one so far." He gave John a weak smile. "So, John, you have been looking after my brother?"

At least the inquiring tone in his voice and the look he gave him were familiar, and John nodded.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "And you two are..."

"Friends" John hastened to answer, "best friends". He was rather glad Mycroft had decided to ask him about it and not Sherlock.

Mycroft shrugged, giving him another half-smile. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. The brother I remember is asexual, at least I'm reasonably certain of that, but seeing how much has changed, I wanted to make sure..."

John nodded again. Mycroft apologizing for making people uncomfortable. He would probably tell him any minute now that he had decided to never carry another umbrella around with him again. "Don't worry about it".

Mycroft gave him a real smile this time, and it was strange to see his face so open, see him being so – so nice, without any ulterior motive. Maybe, John supposed, raising a small genius would have made him more human; he would have had to comfort Sherlock when he was sad, make him lunch and dinner – he wouldn't have been able to simply sit in front of a monitor, watching his little brother.

"Thank you" Mycroft suddenly said, and John looked at him, confused.

"For looking after him".

"You're welcome" John answered, sitting down opposite of Mycroft, and they were silent until Sherlock returned. John didn't mention the slight smell of smoke that was clinging to his suit.

Mycroft suddenly seemed to remember something and asked, "What about Jim?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock demanded, and John had a strange suspicion. No – he couldn't mean – he wouldn't ask –

"Jim Moriarty, Sherlock. Your best friend" Mycroft explained patiently. "Where is he?"

Sherlock let himself fall in the chair next to Mycroft, and John realized he wouldn't have to make something to eat after all. Both he and Sherlock had certainly just lost any appetite they might have had.


	23. Chapter 23

Neither John nor Sherlock were able to answer Mycroft's question immediately. They didn't know how. Mycroft had just asked where Jim Moriarty was – furthermore, he had called Moriarty Sherlock's best friend.

John swallowed, even though he had to admit that it made sense. Sherlock and Moriarty had always been polar opposites, but simply because they were on different sides, because Sherlock fought for justice, because Sherlock was (despite what he may think) a hero. Had they met when both had been – whatever Mycroft believed – scientists, philosophers, it didn't matter really, it would have been far more logical for someone like Moriarty to be Sherlock's best friend. He was brilliant; John Watson was simply... helpful.

He didn't doubt Sherlock's friendship for him, he never had (well, maybe once, briefly, when he had come back from the dead); but still – Moriarty and Sherlock being best friends made sense, in a way. If Moriarty had chosen the right path. If he hadn't become the world's only consulting criminal. If he had met Sherlock at a crucial point in his life...

Sherlock wanted to tell Mycroft the truth about Moriarty; but, even though he tried, no sound would come out of his mouth. Moriarty had cost him and John – and several other people – so much that the simple mention of him by his brother was enough to shock him into silence –

No, no, that wasn't the reason. The reason was that Mycroft had just called Moriarty his "best friend". And he seemed to be concerned about him.

Sherlock had no idea, not yet, what kind of electric shock Mycroft had received, but it must have been a strong one. The thought of Moriarty being his best friend – while logical in a strange way, they had, after all, had a lot in common – was utterly absurd. He would never have been able to befriend someone like Moriarty.

But, looking at Mycroft's reaction –

He obviously thought Moriarty was Sherlock's friend, therefore he must think that Moriarty was, as the consulting criminal would have said, "on the side of the angels".

While Sherlock was aware that he had to tell Mycroft the truth, he wasn't looking forward to it. He couldn't predict what the knowledge would do to his obviously confused brother.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft looked from Sherlock to John and back to his brother again, concerned. "What..."

Sherlock saw the thought in his eyes before he voiced it, but hearing it was still difficult.

"Did – did anything happen to Jim? Is he alright?"

Mycroft was worried about Moriarty. Sherlock could hear John's drawing in a deep breath and glanced at the doctor – he was pale. Sherlock, thankfully, had by this point regained his composure and was ready to answer his brother. He had to hear what had happened. He had to realize that he was delusional.

"Moriarty is dead". He felt no need to elaborate. That he was dead was enough.

Mycroft seemed to think the same, because he paled and gripped the table, steadying himself. "I – dead? When?" Then he suddenly grasped Sherlock's hand, and the consulting detective was to surprised to shake it off.

"Sherlock. I'm so sorry". Mycroft's eyes told him that he was being earnest, and for a moment, he had the completely unreasonable desire to scream. He finally took his hand away – Mycroft looked hurt, but understanding, which made him feel even more uncomfortable – and finally replied, in a neutral voice, "He shot himself. Almost four years ago".

Mycroft's eyes widened and he moved as if he wanted to grab Sherlock's hand again, but this time the consulting detective was too quick him. He frowned and then said, "Sherlock – I don't know what to say – I know what he meant to you".

"Meant to him?"

Both Sherlock and Mycroft looked at John, who didn't look confused anymore; instead, he looked angry. Sherlock should have known. John hadn't forgiven Mycroft yet, would perhaps never forgive him, and this grief about Moriarty's death could hardly –

"I'll tell you what – " John hissed, but then he caught Sherlock's eyes, thank God. He shook his head, and John took a deep breath and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his right hand.

He stood up. "I – I need fresh air".

With these words, he left the room. Sherlock knew him well enough to realize he would be back soon enough; he would undoubtedly regret leaving Sherlock behind with his disoriented brother within the next ten minutes.

"'Locky? What's going on? Why would your friend react that way?"

Mycroft's gaze bored into Sherlock's, and he sighed. "Mycroft, I have to tell you something. Please, don't interrupt me".

Normally, he wouldn't have asked his brother something like this, but Mycroft wouldn't have acquiesced to his wish either, as he did now, so the normal rules obviously didn't apply. Sherlock tool a deep breath and started to explain.

"Mycroft – Moriarty was a psychopathic criminal mastermind who tried to make me commit suicide and shot himself when he thought I would".

It was bluntly put, and he was certain John – if he had been there and if he had got over Mycroft's reaction to Moriarty's death – would have told him that it was a "bit not good". But he and his brother had never been in the habit of talking around the subject they actually wanted to discuss, and he wasn't about to start know. Not even when Mycroft was... out of sorts. Maybe the shock would help him remember.

It didn't. Mycroft needed a few moments to process what he'd said, but still less time than a normal human being. During these few moments, the door opened and John slid in quietly. He had come back even quicker than Sherlock had predicted. He must be concerned – even more so than usually.

He didn't ask what was going on; a look into Sherlock's and Mycroft's faces was more than enough.

He was proven right when Mycroft answered, "I'm sorry, I do not understand. Jim Moriarty is a psychiatrist – he teaches at the university – you met when you were both twelve years old..."

He trailed off when he saw Sherlock's expression. He might be confused, he might be afraid, but he was still the British Government, still better at deduction than his brother (if he wanted, that was) and he knew Sherlock. The consulting detective had to admit that he was glad when Mycroft stopped talking; he didn't think he could have managed to listen to him prattle on about his and Moriarty's friendship.

The uncomfortable silence that followed seemed to last forever. Mycroft obviously had questions, but didn't want to ask them, most likely because he was scared of the answers. Sherlock didn't know what to say that hadn't already been said, and John chose to be silent because he didn't know how to make Mycroft better. But neither Sherlock nor John could deny the trace of genuine grief on Mycroft's face, and the knowledge that his brother was grieving for the consulting criminal made Sherlock crave another cigarette. John looked slightly nauseous.

The silence was broken by the text alert of Sherlock's mobile phone. He took it out of his pocket and pretended he wasn't as relieved as John looked.

The text was from Anthea.

_Doctor Trevelyan is waiting for you in the lab.  
A_

She didn't ask how Mycroft was, but Sherlock hadn't expected it; one of the reasons Anthea was the perfect PA for a Holmes was the fact that she could hide her feelings just as well as they could.

"Trevelyan is waiting for us" he announced, looking up, regretting his words a moment later when Mycroft stood up.

Of course. If he thought he and Sherlock were living together – were close – he would interpret Sherlock's words as "me and Mycroft" and not "me and John". Sherlock hadn't even considered this possibility; as far as he was concerned, "we" could only mean one thing.

John had stood up to and shot Sherlock a curious glance.

Sherlock made a slight, but still perceptible movement with his head to indicate that he didn't want his brother running around in his current state. Unfortunately, Mycroft saw it too. His shoulders slumped.

"I'll just go lay down for a bit then" he announced, not even trying to hide the disappointment in his voice, and had left the room before Sherlock could answer. He looked after him and swallowed. Should he follow him? This Mycroft – he was too vulnerable, which of course came from the trust and affection he held for Sherlock. Caring really wasn't an advantage, although Sherlock had decided, after three years alone, that it was a disadvantage he was more than ready to accept.

John's hand on his arm brought him out of his thoughts.

"Let him be" the doctor said, his voice soft. "He needs time. Just like we need to find out what happened in the lab".

Sherlock nodded and replied, "I'm going to text Anthea that she should put up surveillance, though. I'm not allowing him to leave this house without us knowing about it".

John nodded and they made their way out of the mansion, a limousine waiting for them.

"Any idea where the lab is?" the doctor inquired as he got into the car.

"I'm sure the driver knows where to go" Sherlock replied tersely.

John said nothing, well aware that his friend must be worried and didn't like to talk when he was thinking.

Ten minutes into the drive, Sherlock started to speak.

"This would be easier if Mycroft would just accept the evidence. The shock must have caused some sort of hallucination. He is intelligent enough to realize that".

"Maybe he doesn't want to" John supplied, and Sherlock shot him a confused glance.

John bit his lip.

"I mean" he clarified softly, "it doesn't like too bad a life. You are living together, you are a scientist, neither of you is lonely... You have to admit that it is a much more tempting reality". And he believed it. Sherlock being a scientist, happy, carefree – according to Mycroft, he had never taken drugs, never even smoked. True, they didn't know each other...

"No" Sherlock said suddenly, firmly, his gaze boring into John's. "No, it isn't".

John understood and couldn't help the small smile that broke through. Sherlock smirked back and turned to look out of the window.

"So what exactly have you heard about Trevelyan?" John asked, remembering the nod Sherlock gave him at his unspoken question.

Sherlock shrugged. "Not much. I know he is considered an expert in several subjects, and that he works for the Government. Mycroft refused to let me find out more."

They spent the rest of the way in a companionable silence.

John half-expected to find Anthea at the lab, waiting for them, but instead a man who he suspected was Trevelyan himself was standing in front of it, looking for the limousine.

He greeted them nervously and turned around immediately to lead the way to the lab. John couldn't blame him for being nervous; harming Mycroft Holmes might well be considered treason.

He didn't understand most of the things Trevelyan explained to Sherlock on the way to the "Choice Portal", even though he was rather sure he understood the concept. It was an intriguing one, he had to admit – there had been times when he had wondered what would have happened if he hadn't studied medicine or joined the military. Since both these scenarios involved not meeting Sherlock, however, he wouldn't really choose to watch them even if he could.

Sherlock was carefully looking over the portal and asking Trevelyan questions. For a good reason; the man, John suddenly realized, wasn't just nervous because Mycroft had got an electrical shock. He must know something, or at least have a theory of his own.

"Doctor Trevelyan" Sherlock finally growled, "I do have some influence with Scotland Yard, so either you tell me what you know or I will have you arrested".

John supposed the Secret Service could do far worse things to the scientist, but he seemed scared enough at the prospect.

"There is a possibility – that is to say, rather a theory – "

"Spit it out, man" Sherlock snapped, telling John just how much on edge he was.

Trevelyan nodded and swallowed. "There are theories about parallel universes that are created with every choice we make. If the portal did indeed function as such..."

Sherlock's eyes widened. John needed a moment longer to understand, but then he snorted.

"Are you honestly suggesting we have a Mycroft from a parallel universe here?"

He expected Sherlock to laugh, but he didn't, and John realized that the consulting detective seemed to think this indeed possible.

As if their day hadn't been complicated enough already.


	24. Chapter 24

"You can't be seriopus!" John exclaimed, after he had let Trevelyan's theory sink in and realized that Sherlock didn't consider it utterly impossible. The consulting detective understood why. The theory was so strange to be almost called ridiculous; and yet –

Maybe it wasn't much stranger than a machine implanting false memories in Mycroft's mind. There were several theories about choices and decisions creating parallel universes where a different choice created a different outcome; Sherlock had read about most of them. And, if they couldn't be proven, they couldn't be disproved, either; no one could say with certainty that different universes and dimensions didn't exist.

And his brother was adamant that what he was remembering was the truth, despite his skills at deduction, despite every proof to the contrary.

The question was: If this Mycroft came from a parallel universe where he had taken Sherlock with him and raised him –

Where was his brother?

The logical answer was that he was caught in the universe this Mycroft came from. And it was clear that the shock had caused some damage to the portal.

They might be stuck with this Mycroft. His brother might be stuck in another universe.

Sherlock suddenly wished he could dismiss the idea as easily as John had done. Because if it was true – if Trevelyan had indeed sent Mycroft to another universe – he would never see him again.

It was, in some ways, worse than his brother dying. Dying implied the normal end of life; Sherlock understood death, knew what it meant. But his brother being caught somewhere, alone, most likely just as confused as the Mycroft that was currently occupying his mansion...

A strange wave of possessiveness hit him when he realized that would mean Mycroft would meet this other Sherlock, the Sherlock who had never taken drugs or insulted him in his life, and that he would probably prefer him to the brother he had.

Sherlock had always tried to distance himself from the brother who left him behind – the brother who forced him to stay – and yet – and yet –

John would call his thoughts "human", without a doubt; Sherlock knew that sharing the same genes didn't automatically mean he had to care for Mycroft, of course. This was just a silly old prejudice.

But his brother had to return. He had always been there, even when Sherlock had resented him for forcing him to stay in his house after detox, for kidnapping his friends, for telling Moriarty his life's story – he didn't resent him for any of those reasons anymore, it would have been childish, really, but still, Mycroft had always been a constant in Sherlock's life. A life filled of uncertainties and tries not to care for anyone, and Mycroft had been there, no matter that he hadn't taken Sherlock with him, hadn't helped him escape when he went to university.

He had always been there, and suddenly Sherlock was confronted with the possibility that he might be gone – that he might never have been there.

This Mycroft (if it was a different Mycroft; there were other possibilities he had to acknowledge – he might simply have lost his mind) – he was so – nice, polite, considered. He might be the brother Sherlock had wished for once upon a time, but he wasn't the brother he had lived with, he wasn't the brother he needed right now.

Simply because –

Sherlock was the wrong brother for him.

Sherlock had been left alone with their parents – and the less said about them, the better – when he had been just eleven years old, he had taken drugs, he had been through withdrawal, he had been forced to stay in Mycroft's house, he had become a consulting detective even though his brother had thought he should rather have been a scientist or a philosopher, he had lived in 221B Baker Street, he had suffered through Mycroft kidnapping all of the friends (it had taken a while, but now he admitted that this was the correct term) he made, he had hidden and tortured and killed and fought to get back to the life he'd known...

He hadn't lived with Mycroft, he hadn't studied, he had quit university; if his theory was correct, he wasn't this Mycroft's Sherlock, and he would never be. Just like this Mycroft wasn't the brother he knew, nor the brother he needed. His Mycroft would let him be, would let him investigate crimes, steal evidence without a thought; this Mycroft – he wouldn't understand why Sherlock would want to solve crimes in the first place. He would try to reason with him, make him see that what he was doing was dangerous, that he should go back to university and become a scientist. He wouldn't understand his need to solve crimes, like his Mycroft did. He would simply not understand anything.

And he would expect Sherlock to live with this, because he believed that he had raised him. He would expect Sherlock to be the brother he remembered, and he just couldn't be.

He looked at Trevelyan, who seemed to be just as shocked as Sherlock and John were, and fro good reasons. While Sherlock didn't blame him – he understood the need to search for knowledge – having someone like Mycroft Holmes collapse and just possibly replaced in his laboratory could hardly be easy. Nevertheless, he had hurt his brother, which definitely made it difficult for Sherlock to feel sympathetic towards the man (although he would certainly never admit as much to his brother, his real brother). He had answered all of Sherlock's questions, however, and he hadn't lied about his theory – a theory that could have brought him in an asylum at a different time – and that was something, even if Sherlock still couldn't understand how he could have allowed someone as important as Mycroft Holmes somewhere near his machines. There were too many variables; too many choices. How could he ever have thought that instructing people to simply try it out was safe?

About despite everything, Sherlock needed his help. If Mycroft was indeed stuck in another universe – if he was lost in a world that could have been – his only way out was the way he'd come in, and that meant Trevelyan had to repair the Choice Portal.

He told the scientist as much, in a voice that brooked no argument, while John was standing beside him, still sceptical but supportive, just like he had always been. Trevelyan seemed unsure if he could do it, but still happy not to be persecuted immediately, and he eagerly promised that he would work night and day to make the portal work again.

Considering just how many people relied on Mycroft, it was probably better.

Considering what Sherlock felt, seeing his brother – or not his brother, the situation was rather complicated, even for him – this lost, it was definitely better for Trevelyan's well-being.

John didn't say anything as he told Trevelyan how to proceed. He only spoke after they has caught a cab.

He looked at Sherlock and asked, "Are you sure about – about this parallel universe thing?"

Sherlock wished he could tell him that he was, but the truth was that he didn't know, so he shook his head. "It's a possibility".

"A very remote possibility" John argued, shaking his head. "Sherlock, I know it's easier to believe your brother is somewhere – even in another dimension – than that he has simply lost his mind, but still..."

Sherlock bit his lip. Of course his theory could just be wishful thinking; in a way, it was easier to imagine Mycroft, his brother, caught in a parallel universe, and Sherlock able to get him back, rather than telling Mycroft about Moriarty and the role he had played in his last scheme.

Yes, it would definitely be easier to pretend that this Mycroft, this Mycroft who was so fond of him, knew nothing about his games with the consulting criminal.

But still, it was a theory, and a theory he couldn't disprove at that.

John apparently read his thoughts, for he added, "I know – trust me, I know what it means to imagine that you can fix your sibling simply by pressing a button".

Sherlock looked at John, but the doctor had turned to look out of the window, avoiding his eyes. Of course John knew.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Anyway, we have to consider the possibility that Mycroft may be caught in parallel universe, as long as we don't know for sure".

John didn't look at him, but he grasped his hand and squeezed it, just for a moment, and this told Sherlock that the doctor would stand by him no matter what.

He hadn't really known what to expect when they returned to Mycroft's mansion, but it certainly wouldn't have been his brother (or not his brother; it was rather confusing, even for him) making dinner, asking whether everything had "gone well".

He didn't know what to say, but thankfully, John took over and told Mycroft about the portal that had suffered some damage (although he didn't mention Sherlock's theory about parallel universes, which was probably for the best). Mycroft seemed to take it well enough, he listened and nodded, even though he shot Sherlock a few worried looks. Naturally, he didn't care about John; he didn't remember John, he didn't know John, and even if he had, the doctor would simply have been the flatmate of his brother.

"John" Mycroft started after the doctor had finished talking, "I'm done here; could you lay the table for me?"

John knew what the elder Holmes meant; he obviously wanted to talk to Sherlock alone. While he didn't think it would do much harm – Sherlock would tell him everything that had happened anyway – he wished he could stay regardless. He looked at the consulting detective, who gave an almost imperceptible nod to make him understand it was all fine, and left the kitchen.

Mycroft took their dinner of the stove and made sure it was safely stored until they would take it to the dining room and John before speaking.

"I looked up everything we had Jim Moriarty".

Sherlock tensed. He should have expected it; he really should have. It was only natural for Mycroft to want and find out everything about him. After all, he would want proof that Moriarty had been a psychopath. He was a Holmes – no matter from which reality – and a Holmes always wanted to make sure.

Mycroft turned around, and Sherlock, to his surprise, saw nothing but regret and – was this sadness? – in his eyes.

"I'm sorry" his brother said, "If I had known – I would never have asked about him. I wouldn't have made you remember him. And I certainly – "

He stopped, and Sherlock knew what he was thinking about. The files he had read must have contained information about his talks with Moriarty; Sherlock should have known that he would try and find out everything. And now Mycroft was trying to apologize to him, for something he really didn't have to apologize in the first place.

So he simply answered, "I know".

"I don't think you know". Mycroft's gaze bored into his, earnest, wishing to be forgiven, which Sherlock couldn't do, simply because there was nothing to forgive.

"I'm still sad he died" Mycroft continued, "I can't help it. Not with everything I remember. But... I know what he did to you." Sherlock nodded.

Then, suddenly, Mycroft hugged him, and Sherlock didn't know what to do, so he decided to hug him back, albeit stiffly. Mycroft patted his back before withdrawing.

Then, he repeated, "I'm still sad about his death. I can't help it".

He abruptly turned around and Sherlock answered, quietly, "I understand" because he did.

Mycroft gave him a small smile before putting a bowl into his hand and making his way to the dining room, Sherlock following him.


	25. Chapter 25

They ate mostly in silence, Mycroft staring at his plate instead of making polite conversation, and John suspected that he had researched his life here – of course he wouldn't rest when he said he would. Holmes never did.

He had caught Sherlock's eye when the consulting detective entered the dining room, and, while not completely assured that everything was fine, at least he and Mycroft didn't seem to have fought.

He still didn't know what to think about Trevelyan's theory; although it had a certain logic to it; this logic being that Mycroft Holmes wouldn't be so open to someone he thought he had never met, like John, and he definitely wouldn't trust someone simply because Sherlock did. And yet he couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock was clinging to it because it was easier than to admit his brother had lost his mind.

Well, not "lost". Maybe more "replaced". Still...

Sherlock's phone rang. Both John and Mycroft looked up. The consulting detective took it out of his pocket.

It was Greg Lestrade. He should have known; most of his friends and acquaintances knew he preferred to text. The DI was the only one who insisted on calling him – even Mrs. Hudson sent him texts and was rather proud that she had "learned how to handle a phone" in "her old age" – and Sherlock secretly liked it, because it was something just between the two of them.

They had just solved their last case, however, and it was unlikely that another murder that would interest Sherlock had occurred within such a short time.

He picked up the DI and greeted him by his first name. He had never paid much attention to the fact that he still called him by his last name, even after he had learned he was called Greg; but after he had returned he had seen the slight hesitation in his DI's eyes every time he used "Lestrade" and realized he would prefer the consulting detective to use his first name. So he did, and the twinkle in Greg's eyes when he had done it for the first time had told him he'd been right.

"Sherlock". By now, Sherlock knew the DI good enough to hear the concern in his voice. He waited patiently for him to continue.

Greg asked, softly, "Is everything alright? I wanted to visit you, and Mrs. Hudson told me you left the flat "looking anxious" a few hours ago".

Sherlock should have known. Greg had made a habit of dropping by at 221B in the evening, even if there were no cases to be solved, and simply keeping Sherlock and John company, sometimes talking, sometimes watching telly with John, sometimes listening to Sherlock playing the violin.

And Mrs. Hudson had told him that they had left quickly and unexpectedly. That was not unusual; but, remembering John's sign that she shouldn't worry, Sherlock realized that he must have looked agitated.

"There's been an accident" he finally replied, and hastened to add, "Me and John are fine. But Mycroft – "

"Is he injured?" Greg inquired, anxiously, and Sherlock didn't know what to answer. Mycroft wasn't injured per se; but he didn't think that the DI would react well to "there is a very remote possibility that he has been exchanged with a Mycroft from another universe". He finally settled on, "Physically, no".

"And mentally?" It should have been clear to Sherlock that Greg would see through his feeble attempt at deception immediately; he had known him for years, even longer than John had, and he had been his first (even though he hadn't used the word for a long time, not until – Moriarty) friend, excluding Mrs. Hudson, who most of the time behaved more like his mother than his landlady.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, who had stopped eating and was scrutinizing him with the sharp gaze he remembered so well, even if it was somewhat softened by the curiosity and fondness in his eyes.

"It's – complicated" he said after a few moments of silence. He didn't want to explain everything in front of Mycroft and hoped Greg would understand.

He did, as usual. "You don't want to talk in front of him, am I right?"

"Yes" he replied simply.

Greg didn't answer immediately, and Sherlock could imagine him, the phone at his ear, biting his lip, bouncing on his feet, wondering what to say next. He waited.

After a short while, Greg asked, "Where are you? Do you want me to come over?"

Once upon a time, Sherlock would have answered "Why?" but he had learned enough about human interaction over the last few years to know that this meant Greg wanted to "come over" to check on them, so he said, "In Mycroft's mansion. You can come, if you want. It's – "

"I know where it is. I'll be there in half an hour". Greg hung up, leaving Sherlock wondering when exactly the DI had found out Mycroft's address, and address that was protected and supposedly impossible to find.

Deciding to think about it at another time, he stored the information in his mind palace and told Mycroft and John that Greg was on his way as he put his phone back in his pocket.

"Greg?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock hadn't thought anything this Mycroft did would upset him as much as his wondering who John was. He'd been wrong.

"DI Lestrade" John helped out, and Mycroft nodded.

"The DI you help with his cases? Of course, silly of me". He concentrated on his plate again. "I look forward to meeting him".

Sherlock and John looked at each other but chose to say nothing. They understood each other without words.

Greg arrived precisely half an hour later. Mycroft stood up to open the door, but Sherlock insisted that he stay in the dining room with John; he wanted to prepare his DI. He had known Mycroft for a rather long time too, after all, and he shouldn't have to come face to face with a Mycroft Holmes who didn't recognize him unprepared.

Despite his best efforts, what he was feeling must have been showing on his face, because as soon as he opened the door, Greg took a deep breath and said, "Sherlock..."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Get in. I'll explain everything".

Or not. To explain to someone that the whole life his brother had led had been erased – replaced really – from his mind wasn't easy.

He tried to explain though, even though he let out their theory about a parallel universe – he would wait until Greg had seen Mycroft and realized that the man he was talking to may look like Sherlock's brother, but somehow wasn't.

When he had finished, Greg leaned against the door and rubbed a hand over his face.

"So he thinks you are a scientist. A scientist he raised". He looked up, waiting for confirmation, and Sherlock nodded.

"And he doesn't remember your cases or – or Moriarty. Or John". Sherlock nodded again.

"So he won't remember me either" Greg added and not even Sherlock could have mistaken the pain in his voice for something else.

He raised an eyebrow.

Greg cleared his throat. "I started to come by after you – after you disappeared, to keep Mycroft company. We drank brandy and talked".

Sherlock was surprised, though not as much as he could have been. Mycroft and Greg had several things in common, most of all a certain obsession with knowing where he was and if he was safe; he had always suspected that they would get on quite well, should they decide to talk to one another for other reasons than cases Sherlock was called in on.

And he knew that John had withdrawn from Greg after his so-called suicide – the doctor had admitted as much to him, obviously ashamed – so that the only "friend" Greg had had left he'd known as long as Sherlock had been Mycroft. He probably had given the elder Holmes his condolences, and it had progressed from there.

So he simply answered, "Fine. Do you want to – " He looked away and bit his lip.

"Yes" Greg replied, "Yes, I want to see him. I guess John's with him?"

Sherlock nodded and let the way to the dining room.

Greg hadn't known what to expect. He had known as soon as Mrs. Hudson had told him about Sherlock's anxiety that something was wrong; she knew "her boys" better than anyone else, and if she thought something was amiss, it most likely was.

He hadn't considered that something might have happened to Mycroft though, to his shame. He knew Sherlock cared about his brother; he just hadn't expected him to show it so openly. Then again, if Anthea had texted him, told him to come to the hospital, the consulting detective would have known that something serious must have happened...

The news that Mycroft wouldn't recognize him hit him harder than he would have supposed it would. True, he and Mycroft had become friends of sorts while Sherlock had been gone; and yet - what did they have in common? Sherlock. They had needed several months of silently drinking brandy to even start talking.

But still – he was rather sure he was the closest thing Mycroft had to a friend, and in these years when Sherlock had been gone (John hadn't really talked to him for a year after his "death") Mycroft had been Greg's only friend too. The DI had never had many friends, hadn't even had close friends until he had met Sherlock. So, really, befriending Mycroft had been something new in the first place, and he didn't want to lose that.

It was clear that Mycroft didn't recognize him when he stepped into the dining room.

The elder Holmes was polite enough – wishing him a "Good evening" and apologizing for not knowing who he was – but, nevertheless, it hurt. Greg could only imagine what this must do to Sherlock, who, despite his best efforts to hide the fact, cared for his brother. A brother who knew nothing of his life, career, Moriarty, or his friends.

He swallowed and greeted Mycroft before nodding at John. He knew, just from the way the doctor was looking at Sherlock, that he wanted to talk to him, and alone at that.

So he suggested, seeing the empty plates, "Mycroft, could I help you with those?"

Mycroft happily acquiesced and they carried the plates to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock and John to discuss things.

"They could act a little more subtly, but then, subtlety has never been Sherlock's strongest suit" Mycroft commented lightly, putting the plates in the sink.

"No" Greg replied, doing the same, "no, it hasn't".

Mycroft turned to look at him, regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry – Greg... I understand we knew each other".

Greg nodded.

"We were friends". It was a statement, not a question, and if Greg hadn't known the Holmes so well, he would probably have asked how Mycroft knew, but he simply decided to nod again.

Mycroft laughed, although it was a short, bitter laugh. "I guess I should be happy that I have one friend in this life who is genuinely concerned about me – and not because he knows my brother."

Greg didn't know what to say. Mycroft smiled weakly. "I apologize. The situation is rather confusing".

"Tell me about it". They both chuckled, and Mycroft asked, "How did we become friends? If you don't mind me asking".

Greg told him.

Meanwhile, John and Sherlock were talking about Sherlock's theory, John having found that he'd somehow started to believe it against his will. In a bizarre way, it made more sense for Mycroft to come from a parallel universe than him grieving for the consulting criminal.

"What are we going to do about it?" he asked. "It's not like we can try to contact Mycroft – if he should happen to be in this parallel universe – or could we?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think so. But Mycroft is intelligent enough to figure out where he is, and what he has to do – namely to find a way to open a portal in our universe."

"If he's there."

"Yes" Sherlock confirmed. "I'm going to work with Trevelyan, find out what went wrong, try to repair the portal".

"I'm coming with you" John said determinedly.

"And Mycroft? We can't leave him alone."

"Don't worry" John said with a small smile, indicating the kitchen with a move of his head, "you both have more friends than you think".

This, Sherlock decided, could only be a good thing.


	26. Chapter 26

"Alright, let me get this straight: Cairns ordered a criminal mastermind, who controls every crime in this city but nonetheless leads a life as a well-known psychiatrist and professor, to put a hit on Carey, and said criminal mastermind told his hit man to spear the victim with his own harpoon because he enjoys stuff like that, and he knew you were on the case when you surprised his sniper in the victim's house, so he had Cairns shot in front of you".

Mycroft had to admit that, put like that, it sounded rather unbelievable.

Lestrade put his head in his hands and sighed. "Life was easy" he grumbled, running his hands through his hair and finally crossing them behind his head, glaring at Mycroft. "Mind you, I'm not saying "good" or "interesting" but "easy". So I didn't solve many cases. So even when I knew who had committed the crime, I couldn't arrest the bastard because there was no evidence. So I had no friends. So I lived with a wife I didn't love anymore and who apparently cheated on me. So I didn't even notice I was alive most of the time. So what? It was easy, wonderfully easy, and then you decided to casually stride into my office with your bloody umbrella and your bloody suit and your bloody condescending attitude..."

"I'm informed that is my usual "attitude" as you so eloquently put it" Mycroft interrupted, and Lestrade stared at him. For a moment, the elder Holmes wondered if the DI was going to throw him out of his office.

Then, unexpectedly, Greg started to laugh.

Mycroft decided it was best to wait for this to subside, so he simply looked on until the DI gasped for air.

"My God – are you always like this?"

"Like what?" Mycroft asked.

"So polite and correct and – God, I can't remember the last time I laughed so much".

He looked at Mycroft, raising an eyebrow. "The question is: what do I do with you?"

Mycroft had been aware that there was a chance that Lestrade would arrest him – the man was still a police officer, and he had broken into a house – but it would only be a slight inconvenience. He would be out of the cell in ten minutes.

Greg seemed to come to a decision and shook his head. "Forget it. Breaking and entering isn't even our division".

"And what about the case?" Mycroft asked, "didn't we hinder your investigation?"

Greg laughed again. "Trust me, it's safe to say the only who has "hindered my investigations" in the past few years is me". He inclined his head to the right side and scrutinized Mycroft once again.

"You are right, though but – I trust you. I have no idea why, but I do".

Mycroft decided that "because we were friends in another universe" wasn't a good answer, so he said nothing.

"Sit down" Greg said, and, once Mycroft had obeyed, he added, "You think you can bring down this – this –" he searched for the name and found it before Mycroft could help out, "Moriarty. Officially. Without him killing you somewhere down the line".

"He wants us to try."

"What makes you think he'll play fair? Why would he even give you a chance?"

"Because" Mycroft replied with conviction, "he is bored and he wants someone to play with".

Greg sighed. "You geniuses have strange hobbies".

Mycroft chose not to comment.

"There is, however, one thing I still don't understand" Greg said, and Mycroft tensed. He had feared that the man Sherlock had once described as "the best Scotland Yard has to offer" (albeit in a slightly condescending tone) would notice what he had let out. He hadn't told him about Carl Powers, or the skull, or how long he had known Moriarty in this universe, although he had made clear that he knew him quite well.

The reason he had suppressed all of this was simple: He didn't know how to explain it. He could always make up a story about stumbling over some documents or Moriarty letting his mask slip – he hadn't spent his life in politics for nothing – but there was always the risk that Lestrade would want to see proof.

"From the way you talked about Moriarty, I gather you both knew him rather well – for years, probably – before you started to suspect that something was amiss. When and why did you suspect something?"

Just as Mycroft had thought, then. He swallowed and said, slowly, hoping it would be enough, "Yes, we knew each other for quite a while. In fact he has been my brother's best friend for over twenty years. I can't really say when I started to suspect something – there were just moments when I could see his true nature, just behind his eyes. Moments when he thought no one was watching him. Moments when he reacted too quickly or too slowly or not at all as one would have expected."

Lestrade frowned, and Mycroft, for once, couldn't read what he was thinking. It was disquieting.

Finally, he nodded, and Mycroft managed not to let show the relief he felt on his face.

"Instinct, then. I can live with that".

Something about the words he chose – "live with that" instead of "believe that" – told Mycroft that the DI had his suspicions, but wouldn't voice them, as long as Mycroft played fair with him during this case. It was unspoken agreement they both understood.

Greg stood up. "So, when do I get to meet the second part of the dynamic duo?"

"Sherlock is at work" Mycroft answered, glad that this at least wasn't a lie.

"What does Mr. "several PhDs" do for a living anyway?" the DI asked, grabbing his coat. "I know that he's a scientist, but other than that..."

"He works independently for several labs." Mycroft answered, realizing that he didn't know what his brother was working on, that he hadn't even asked. No wonder Sherlock had looked so disappointed when he left today. Mycroft was the only brother he had for the moment, and he didn't seem to care about him. He told himself, as he had so often done in the course of his life, when it came to Sherlock, that feeling guilty wouldn't change anything, especially not in a world that wasn't his own.

As always, it didn't really work, but he told himself it did.

"And now he's become a detective. And you occupy a minor position in the government. Your parents must be proud".

There was a slightly sarcastic undertone in his voice, but other than that, Lestrade seemed genuinely curious and obviously considered this polite conversation. Mycroft stiffened; he couldn't help it. The DI noticed and bit his lip.

"I'm sorry. I remember your brother told me you raised him. I didn't mean to – "

"It's fine" Mycroft answered quickly, instinctively reverting to John's way of dealing with uncomfortable conversations. "It's all fine".

Lestrade didn't look convinced, so Mycroft asked, "Where are we going, if you don't mind me asking?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "You don't expect me to take down a criminal mastermind in my office when we don't have any proof that he is a criminal mastermind to begin with, do you? I don't want to lose my job".

"Without me, you wouldn't even be doing your job right now" Mycroft shot back, and Greg merely smirked.

"The fact that you are right doesn't change anything about my previous statement. Plus, I think Sherlock and I need to clear the air before we even start to chase Moriarty. So, off to the Holmes mansion".

Mycroft deigned it below his dignity to make a sarcastic remark about "Holmes mansion". It was difficult enough to grasp that Greg felt he and Sherlock had to "clear the air"; the only time they had had to do that before had been, if he remembered correctly, was after Sherlock had returned, and even then, he didn't think that any forgiveness had to be bestowed in the first place. The DI and his brother understood one another in a way no one else could, for the simple reason that they both felt the need to solve crimes, couldn't live without it. The DI had chosen a more conventional path, yes, but other than that, their work ethics were surprisingly alike, which was why Greg had never really been angry at Sherlock even if he had stolen evidence or gone to arrest a suspect without telling anyone.

Now, of course, in this world, they didn't have that understanding. Sherlock had poured his energy into experiments and discoveries, rather than crime solving, and wouldn't sympathize with Lestrade, even if he turned out to be the DI Mycroft remembered after all; And Greg, while by no means stupid, would not comprehend a single one of Sherlock's experiment.

In this world, they were simply not made to be friends. But Greg was right, they had to at least build up something like a working relationship.

Which, remembering the only conversation they had had so far, would probably not be easy.

Sherlock would see that Greg could be useful to them, however; and he trusted Mycroft enough that he could make his brother be polite to the detective.

Mycroft didn't like the thought of manipulating Sherlock – and yet, it couldn't be helped if it was the only way to get his brother to work with the DI. Perhaps he would do it simply because he knew it to be the best thing to do under the circumstances, though. He would have to wait and see.

They took Greg's car and drove back to the house. Sherlock hadn't returned yet, but that was only to be expected. If the employees of the lab didn't know how to deal with the experiment, something big must have gone wrong.

Greg immediately went into the living room, and with a strange feeling of regret Mycroft remembered that the DI had only done that in his world after he had been to his house several times.

"So you raised him" Greg said, once they were both seated.

Mycroft nodded.

"How old where you?" the DI asked. "I'm sorry, I'm just curious. How old where you when..."

He trailed off and Mycroft realized he didn't know whether their parents were dead or had simply been inadequate, so he said, "I was eighteen and Sherlock eleven. I took him with me when I left for university – he didn't want to be left alone". He was confident that the DI would hear the unspoken "with our parents" and he was proven right when Greg simply nodded.

"You are a good brother. I don't think I could have handled looking after a young boy while trying to complete my education".

The DI fell silent, and Mycroft had to fight the urge to tell him that he hadn't handled it, and furthermore, that he wasn't even sure that he could have handled it as his counterpart in the world had done. Maybe this Mycroft was better than him; maybe he had been born with a warmer heart, maybe living with Sherlock and studying at the same time hadn't been a problem for him at all.

Maybe he was simply deficient. That he didn't belong into this world was obvious; and he wanted nothing more than to return home. This world made him see just how empty his life truly was, and how it could have been –

If he would even have been able to do the right thing.

Maybe he had never deserved a brother like Sherlock Holmes to begin with.


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock came home about an hour after Mycroft and Greg, looking angry,

"This imbeciles – really, you would think they would understand a simple instruction like "don't let the experiment get too hot" – mind you, I had written down exactly at which temperature it would get critical –and yet they somehow managed to..." Sherlock trailed off when he walked into the living room and found Lestrade sitting there. Mycroft decided he had to do something quickly, or his brother and the DI would spend the whole case distrusting each other.

"Sherlock, Greg has decided to help us".

Lestrade shot him a glance that clearly said, "Greg it is then? Didn't know we were on a first name basis" but apparently decided it didn't matter and gave Sherlock a somewhat polite smile. "Doctor Holmes".

"Sherlock" he corrected automatically, apparently deciding that if his brother was on a first name basis with someone, so he should be.

"So, what are you working on at the moment?" Greg asked.

Sherlock bit his lip and looked at Mycroft; he immediately understood that this meant whatever he was working on in this particular lab was work he was doing for the government, therefore classified – at least for the time being. And even if it wasn't classified, he was most likely not allowed to talk about it – his employer would have made sure he wasn't. Mycroft suspected every project Sherlock worked on was classified in a sense – no country, or independent lab, for that matter, would want to have the work of such a scientist be talked about before it was finished. Curious, he nodded anyway to tell him it was alright to talk about it.

Sherlock took a deep breath and then began, "It's about intelligent medicine."

""Intelligent medicine?" Greg asked, confused, and Sherlock elaborated.

"Medicine that only attacks the sickness itself, without any adverse effects".

Greg looked at him sceptically.

"You mean without any allergic reactions or problems with other medicines the patient might be taking?"

"Exactly" Sherlock replied, pride in his voice.

Greg shook his head. "Alright. Not that I'm not impressed – I am – but those are the people I am going to fight a criminal mastermind with. A proper genius who spends most of his life in the lab and a –" he looked at Mycroft and frowned, then decided to continues, "a rather unusual part of the British Government".

And just like this, it downed upon Mycroft that in this world he would be the strange one, the "freak". He hadn't thought about it before because he hadn't considered it even a remote possibility; and yet it made sense.

In this world, he had never had any surveillance on Sherlock (and why should he have); he had never "kidnapped" (how John Watson would have put it, if he hadn't been – but he didn't want to think about that) Sherlock's friends; he had never made contracts with a consulting criminal; he had been more polite and nice than he had ever been, all thanks to his little brother. Therefore, he would have been considered normal – if more intelligent than most.

Sherlock, of course, would hardly have been labelled a "freak", even if he loved science and spent most of his time in labs. He had been raised by the other Mycroft, had learned what it meant to be polite and diplomatic.

They had been two nice brothers, a bit unusual but hardly freaks.

And now he had stumbled into their world, rambling about crimes and consulting criminals and drug addicts and ex-army doctors addicted to adrenaline.

Yes, he was definitely a freak in this world.

He had never been considered a freak before – at least he wasn't aware of it, and no one would ever have dared to tell him, should he have been – and he decided that he didn't like the feeling much. Was this really how Sherlock had felt all these years – when people had looked at him before completing a sentence, even doubted his sanity? He had known, of course, what it meant; he hadn't known how it felt.

And he had wondered why his brother had never managed to be more polite.

How he wished he was home, with his Sherlock quietly resenting him, John ignoring him (but at least accepting his presence, if he had to), the DI there for him, despite everything.

But he wasn't home, and he couldn't return until they had brought down Moriarty; he could hardly tell Sherlock his friend was a dangerous psychopath and then ask him to send him back. He had to make sure this Sherlock was safe first. He may not be his real brother, but that didn't make Mycroft's instinct to keep him safe any less strong.

Sherlock seemed rather unhappy with Greg's choice of words, but thankfully let it go.

"What are we going to do?" Greg finally began. "We have to bring down Moriarty with no evidence to speak of".

"I wouldn't say that" Mycroft answered. Both Sherlock and Greg looked at him.

"I mean" he said, his mind racing, "Moriarty wouldn't have given us this challenge if there wasn't something – anything – to prove he was guilty. A game is no fun if there's no risk involved".

The DI was unconvinced, but Sherlock's eyes sparkled, and Mycroft realized he had given him what probably no Sherlock Holmes in any world had ever been able to resist. A real challenge. His mind against another mind. His intellect against another.

Sherlock stood up, starting to pace up and down once again. Greg looked like he wanted to ask why, but apparently thought the better of it.

"Jim can only mean this case – we have no evidence to tie him to any other – at least apart from or testimony..." Sherlock mumbled. "So he must mean..."

He stopped and looked at Greg and Mycroft.

"He has to mean Cairns' shooting. Maybe he did it himself; maybe he instructed the sniper to leave evidence behind because he wanted to play. Either way, we have to see the place where Cairns was shot from".

Both looked at Greg. He shrugged. " building on the other side of the street – but, really, the crime scene techs have already searched every centimetre. There's nothing there".

"Let us be the judges of that" Sherlock replied swiftly, and he smirked. "Not that I don't trust Anderson to make a thorough analysis of the evidence – we still have to make sure".

Mycroft reminded himself to tell his Sherlock what this version had just said. His face would be hilarious.

If – when he got home. He had definitely thought "when", not "if", he told himself.

They drove to the building and this time, thankfully, didn't have to sneak in; Greg simply told the PC to go. From the confused look he gave the DI, Mycroft decided that their friend had hardly, if ever, shown up on crime scenes as of late. And Mycroft couldn't help but admit that it was somehow comforting to see Lestrade call in Sherlock on a case once again –

Even if he seemed to think that Mycroft was the one who had started it all, and in a way, he was right. Sherlock certainly would never have had the idea to investigate his friend to begin with. They made their way to the roof from which Cairns had been shot.

"What exactly are we looking for?"Greg asked, standing at the place the sniper must have stood and squinting down at the door of Cairns' house.

"Good shot" he commented. "He killed him without harming you."

"Apparently Moriarty wanted us to live" Mycroft mumbled, looking over the roof himself, Sherlock on the other side, bouncing up and down, clearly enjoying himself.

Greg shot the younger Holmes a look and mumbled something to himself that sounded like "well, someone's eager all of a sudden", but Mycroft ignored this to answer his question.

"Something nobody else would have perceived as a clue, because it is either important or seems to belong here. Something like – "

"A discarded ad for an exhibition?" Sherlock's excited voice floated over to them, and they turned around to find him carefully take a piece of paper out of the corner.

Greg was quicker than Mycroft and took the ad out of Sherlock's hands before he could read it. Mycroft saw his brother's face darken and asked, and, what is it?"

"An ad for an exhibition..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Very helpful, Inspector. Now, please, which exhibition?"

Strangely enough, the way he demanded the information was almost conforming, because Mycroft had heard this tone from his brother many times. True, usually when he spoke to people like Anderson, but still...

His relief was short-lived when the DI snapped at his brother.

"Not everyone is a bloody genius, sunshine." He stared at the paper and squinted. So this version of Lestrade was obviously too proud to get glasses as well. He reminded himself to the Greg he remembered that he really should not be.

"A painting... Turner's Reichenbach Falls" Greg finally announced and Mycroft stiffened.

The Reichenbach Falls. Of all the paintings in all of London... This world certainly had a gift for irony.

Was fate trying to tell him something, as strange and ridiculous as the thought was? Sherlock was no consulting detective, he couldn't even really defend himself. What if he – what if he –

"My?" Sherlock was by his side in an instant, and he shook his head and waved him off.

"I'm fine." He ignored the hurt expression on Sherlock's face, and Lestrade tactfully looked the other way.

"So, what does this tell us?" he finally demanded. "I mean, not that I'm not thankful" he added, looking at Sherlock, obviously trying to be nicer (he must have seen his expression when Mycroft shook him of after all) "but what are we to do with this information?"

"Easy enough" Sherlock answered before Mycroft could, "Moriarty is going to steal the painting."

"Why?" Sherlock shrugged.

"Any reason, really. Maybe he just wants to see if he can".

"And he had his sniper leave this here so – "

"So that if someone, like us" Mycroft interrupted, indicating the group with his hand, "finds out, or has a suspicion, what's going on, can try and prevent it. He must be bored out of his wits without a worthy adversary".

"Well, he won't have that problem anymore" Sherlock said determinedly, and Mycroft thought the same.

His problem was that he didn't know which price they would have to pay for it.


	28. Chapter 28

"But I tell you, the Hickmann Gallery is one of the safest art galleries in London... Plus additionally security had been organized, especially for the Turner painting – how is he going to pull it off?"

Greg was following Mycroft and Sherlock down the stairs, trying to prove to them how illogical their theory was, and the elder Holmes supposed it was indeed difficult to imagine for someone who had never met Moriarty or worked with Sherlock Holmes. By the time Moriarty had surfaced in his world, the DI had known Sherlock for five years and hadn't doubted a word he'd said. Here, he was still learning to trust them, and it looked like he was more inclined to believe Mycroft than Sherlock, which made a distorted kind of sense, since he, he reminded himself, was "the freak" here.

"Moriarty always finds ways" he answered. "He has people everywhere".

"Everywhere? You mean he – infiltrates everything? Museums? I don't know – The Bank of England? The Tower of London? The Pentonville prison? Are you telling me he could open the doors of all of them?"

Mycroft wished Greg hadn't used these examples, but simply nodded.

"Great. Why were you friends with him again?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft could see Sherlock bite his lip and turn around to glare at Greg. Not good. Definitely a bit very not good.

"I was twelve. He was twelve. I wanted a friend; he searched for someone to manipulate. And just for the record, Mycroft was nineteen and could hardly be expected to realize that the boy his brother played with was a psychopath".

Mycroft had stopped walking down the stairs and looked up at Greg and Sherlock, who were standing several steps above him. He saw Greg's eyes widen at Sherlock's ferocity and realized he had been foolish to believe that Sherlock would simply get over his best friend being a psychopath within two days, or that he wouldn't blame himself for never having suspected anything in the first place anymore.

He hadn't told Greg much, except that they had been friends, but he was a good police officer, and Mycroft could see that he was quickly putting the right picture together in his mind, because suddenly, he didn't look at Sherlock with suspicion anymore; instead, he could read understanding and pity in his eyes.

For some reason, Mycroft felt this to be worse. Even when his brother had been "the freak" to everyone except him and Mrs. Hudson and the DI, Greg had never looked upon Sherlock with pity.

Annoyance, yes.

Exasperation, yes.

Fondness (while trying not to show it), yes.

Pity, never.

And the fact that Sherlock seemed not only to accept, but prefer the pity to having to prove himself to Lestrade was disconcerting in his own right.

If there was one thing he had never wanted to see, it was pity directed towards him.

Mycroft pushed the thoughts aside when he saw the other two recommence their descent and did likewise. When they reached the street, he said, "We should go to the Gallery though, to have a look at the security arrangements. I'm sure a scary Inspector of Scotland Yard will be able to persuade them to let us in".

"The exhibition opens tomorrow" Lestrade mumbled while searching for his phone that had started to ring a moment ago, "So I must just be able to "persuade" them, as you put it".

He found his phone and answered. "Hello? Donavan?" He walked a few metres away from Mycroft and Sherlock to talk in private – something the DI he knew would never have done – and he certainly felt his younger brother's hand on his arm.

"You don't need to be concerned, you know".

He looked at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

"I don't know what you mean".

Sherlock huffed annoyed.

"Yes you do. I'm not made of glass, Mycroft. I had a more sheltered life than your Sherlock, I'll admit that. I might never have taken drugs or solved crimes or lived with an ex-army doctor or faced a consulting criminal, or spent three years alone..." his voice trailed off as he imagined what this would be like, but then he shook his head and continued.

"I am not a good shot; well, I never really learned to shoot, to be honest; I don't know how to defend myself properly; but I am far from stupid, and I am a fast learner, so stop worrying about "corrupting" me, or whatever you might think".

Mycroft gazed into his eyes, finding nothing but honesty and realizing that he might have been the usual overprotective brother after all when it wasn't necessary. This Sherlock may not be used to a life of crime fighting, but he was still Sherlock – and therefore more than ready to take on anyone who threatened his life or the lives of those he cared about, which in this world might be a longer list than in Mycroft's reality. He was a scientist, he had several PhDs, he might have – through his work – influence with his colleagues; he was certainly well known for his work, at least for the non-classified one. He was still brave, albeit more cautious (which might not be a bad thing). He would perhaps get scared more easily and rely more on Mycroft than his Sherlock did; but he could hardly blame him for this, after he had spent years wishing his Sherlock could possess exactly this qualities.

And while he still preferred his brother to this one – he couldn't lie to himself, not about something like this, not when he felt that he was the wrong Mycroft for this Sherlock – he couldn't deny that the scientist could make a rather valuable ally.

Sherlock nodded, proving that he could indeed read his brother's thoughts quite well (which wasn't surprising since he had sent a lot of time with him). "See?"

Mycroft smiled, Sherlock smirked the self-satisfied smirk he knew so well; they were interrupted by Lestrade, who came back loudly complaining that of course the crime lab had found not even the smallest shred of evidence.

Mycroft and Sherlock said nothing, and soon enough, they were driving to the Gallery in Greg's car.

When they arrived, however, Greg started to frantically search his pockets.

"My id – I knew I had it with me when I left my hotel room this morning..."

Sherlock watch him calmly for a few moments before pulling it out of his own pocket.

"Is that the id you're searching for?"

Greg glared at him. "Next time you find it, hand it to me directly".

"I will" Sherlock promised, apparently sincere.

Greg grabbed his id and turned around to open the door. Mycroft whispered as they followed him, "Did you really "find it" after he dropped it?"

Sherlock smiled mischievously and answered, also in a whisper, "He was annoying. Pick pocketing him calmed me".

Mycroft suppressed a grin and they followed the DI, who had by this time convinced the security team that he and his "colleagues" needed to take a look around.

They had to admit, after an hour in the Gallery, that the painting was as safe as it could be; there were three guards in the immediate vicinity of the Reichenbach Falls alone, and an alarm would ring out the moment anyone came closer than one metre top Turner's masterpiece. Mycroft wasn't to be pacified this easy, though. Moriarty must have a man in the Gallery; someone who was no doubt paid a great sum, someone who would help Moran – they were talking about a priceless piece of art here, he could only sent Moran – to get in and steal in.

It wasn't a question of "if" but "when".

Although the "when" wasn't that hard to guess. Moriarty loved to be dramatic, and he would no doubt want to steal the painting at the moment where everyone's eyes were on it.

In other words, on the opening night.

Just as he was about to share his conviction with the others, Sherlock's phone rang. He looked at the caller id and frowned.

"It's Percy" he informed Mycroft before taking the call.

Greg looked at Mycroft quizzically and he absently answered his unspoken question.

"A friend and colleague of Sherlock's".

Several possibilities as to what this call could mean flittered through his mind; had Trevelyan found out something that would help get him home? Or had he – had he given up on repairing the portal? If so, Mycroft firmly told himself, Sherlock was more than capable of repairing it himself. He would not be denied his return by an overanxious scientist with a fascination for strange theories.

The conversation lasted for about a minute, and Sherlock was mostly speaking short phrases, so Mycroft couldn't tell what they were talking about.

"Yes", "I see", "Understood", "Really?", "Alright".

He hung up and looked at his elder brother, a curious mixture of emotions plainly visible on his face. Mycroft couldn't read him.

"Percy thinks he's fixed the machine" Sherlock informed him, curtly, and Mycroft's eyes widened. His gaze travelled from Sherlock to the pictures in the gallery and rested on the painting of the Reichenbach Falls as he understood within second all this could mean for him.

A minute ago, he had thought he might be stuck here for a long time, if not for good.

And now, he might have a way out. He could get into the portal and out of this strange world, back to the universe he knew –

No. He couldn't leave this Sherlock with a DI who didn't trust him and a brother who didn't know what was going on while Moriarty was at large. He had to see it through to the end; for once, he had to be the one to make things happen, instead of watching them from a distance.

When he looked back at Sherlock, his brother's face only showed one emotion: worry. He didn't want him to leave yet, either. He wanted to see Jim brought to justice first.

The decision was easy.

He hadn't been able to help his brother. He had allowed his brother to lose three years of his life. It was too late to change any of this.

He could, however, change this Sherlock's life for the better.

"Don't worry", he said softly, "I'm not leaving".

"Why should you be leaving?"

They both turned to look at Lestrade, having forgotten that the Inspector was even there.

When none of them answered, he repeated, "Why should you be leaving? You can't just show up, tell me all about a criminal mastermind loose in London and disappear again".

Mycroft would have liked to remind him that they had agreed not to talk about Moriarty where they could be potential witnesses – they seemed to be alone on the floor for the moment, but still – but the DI's face told him it wouldn't be a good idea. It also told him that he wouldn't back down until he had had an answer.

He finally replied "I had been planning to go home – "

"Home? You live in London. And why would your brother look like he'll never see you again once you leave?"

The DI had always been good at reading people, and Sherlock's emotions had been anything but well-hidden. Not that Mycroft felt he had done a better job at concealing what he was feeling. The stay in this universe, with this Sherlock, was starting to affect him in ways he couldn't have predicted.

Mycroft tried to answer in a way that would satisfy Greg, without telling him the truth. "We have a house in the country; there is no need to – "

"Then what does Sherlock's colleague repairing a machine have to do with it?"

He really shouldn't have told the DI that Trevelyan was a scientist. He wished he could deny that the machine had anything to do with it at all, but this was highly unlikely considering his and Sherlock's reaction to the news.

It was also equally implausible that a colleague of Sherlock's should repair a car or plane or bicycle.

Mycroft sighed and shot Sherlock a defeated look, to indicate that they had to tell Greg the truth. Sherlock looked crestfallen, but nodded. Greg's gaze wandered from him to Mycroft and he raised an eyebrow.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I know how this is going to sound, Greg, but please don't interrupt me until I am finished."

The DI nodded and Mycroft began.

He made his explanation as short as possible, and at the end Greg's mouth fell open. Then he took a deep breath.

"So, just to be sure – you are going back to a parallel universe as soon as Moriarty is safely behind bars".

"Yes" Mycroft answered.

Greg laughed, but it was a bitter laugh. "Of course". He rubbed a hand over his face. "I actually believed in a criminal mastermind controlling the city. Good God, I should probably be taken to the mental institution you will undoubtedly end up in soon as well".

"Greg – " Sherlock tried, but the DI waved a hand. "Come on! Do you really expect me to believe all this?"

Mycroft realized that he didn't, that he couldn't. That was why he hadn't told Greg in the first place.

"How do you even know the machine didn't just overwrite your memories? I'm sure your genius over there could explain to you that this is possible".

It was a theory – in fact, the theory that he was "delusional" was exactly what Greg was talking about – but Mycroft refused to believe it. He knew the truth. He felt the truth. And he didn't belong here.

The DI shook his head again. "Forget it. Let's just forget about all of this. I've just wasted time I would have wasted anyway – the lab didn't find anything, and we are nowhere near catching Carey or Cairns' killer. Goodbye, Mr. Holmes". He looked at Sherlock and added condescendingly, "Doctor Holmes" before turning around and leaving.

Mycroft saw Sherlock's eye flash with anger and grabbed his arm, shaking his head. They stared at one another in silence for a moment.

Then, Sherlock asked, "What now?"

"We go to the opening" Mycroft replied. "Moriarty will try to steal the painting then, I'm sure of it."

Sherlock nodded and they left the building under the curious stares of several security guards, who had no doubt seen Greg leave.


	29. Chapter 29

As it turned out, Sherlock may have all the patience in the world when it came to his experiments; concerning cases, however, he was not that different from Mycroft's real brother after all. He couldn't sit still, he barely ate, and Mycroft was certain that he hadn't slept the night before.

Not that he had got any sleep either. He hadn't even bothered to go to bed, in fact.

There was too much to think about.

He and Sherlock would have to defeat Moriarty on their own. It was clear that Greg wouldn't help them – that he thought them insane, Mycroft for explaining that he came from a parallel universe and Sherlock for believing him – and, even though he was only one man, and no genius like them or Moriarty, Mycroft would have felt much better with him still at their side.

Sherlock hadn't seemed to take Greg's leaving quite as seriously; in fact, Mycroft was prepared to swear that he had secretly been relieved not to have to put up with him any longer. Mycroft had not mentioned this; he didn't want to see the guilty look in Sherlock's eyes, especially when he once again had nothing to feel guilty about.

They had had to take a cab back to My – their mansion, Lestrade long gone.

Sherlock had been the one to break the silence.

"You think Moriarty has someone in the Gallery".

"Yes" Mycroft answered. "It's the way he usually... arranges things like these".

"You mean like the Pentonville Prison or the Tower of London?" Sherlock hadn't forgotten a word of his story, apparently, and Mycroft told himself that he definitely should be happier about this fact. Instead, he was – as strange as it sounded – angry at Moriarty for forcing him to tell this Sherlock, this innocent, trusting Sherlock the truth. Apparently he would never be able to escape his past, not even in a parallel universe where this past had been altered.

However, looking at Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and a Moriarty very much alive –

He was startled by the thought that now, for the first time in months, years, the feeling of guilt over his decisions, the one he had always felt while telling himself he didn't, was slowly draining out of him.

He was starting to believe that Moriarty's defeat was a fair price to pay – he had a feeling that even Sherlock, his Sherlock, would see it this way.

In the end, he simply nodded, and Sherlock continued, "Shouldn't we check out all of the Gallery's personal, then? To make sure?"

Mycroft had explained, as patiently as he could, that checking the employees of the Gallery would be useless; Moriarty wouldn't pay them in any detectable way, and they certainly wouldn't admit that they were in any way linked to a criminal mastermind.

Sherlock had fallen silent after that, and Mycroft hadn't tried to make him talk. He had felt instinctively that this Sherlock would want to gather his thoughts before speaking; and he had been right.

Sherlock hadn't spoken again until they had arrived at the house.

He had looked at Mycroft with a worried look, then he had said, "At least we are in this together".

Mycroft hadn't known how to answer.

He had tried to tell Sherlock what to expect, but the younger Holmes had refused to listen, probably because he still refused to believe that his best friend was a killer; or more likely because he was still worried that Mycroft would drive to the lab without him and disappear.

He hadn't let him out of his sight since they arrived at the house, except when they had both retired to bed, or rather pretended to do so, and since Sherlock obviously hadn't slept, he had most likely spent the night listening to every noise in the house. Mycroft couldn't blame him.

He had told him he wouldn't disappear; but he wasn't his brother, the brother he trusted. And after everything he'd told him, he couldn't expect that same level of trust.

He had left his Sherlock behind; he had, albeit unintentionally, helped Moriarty; he hadn't "made up" (as this Sherlock would undoubtedly call it) with him afterwards.

He had simply lived his life, even after Sherlock had made known to him that he was alive, never apologized, continued to thrust cases at him; and furthermore, would still do so if the machine hadn't malfunctioned. If he hadn't seen what could have been.

It was ironic, really, that a Moriarty in a parallel world had managed to do what the Moriarty in his world had never been able to: convince him to take manners in his own hands.

Still, the waiting was rather tedious, especially since Sherlock had taken his violin downstairs in the morning and obviously discovered that one could make screeching noises on the instrument; Mycroft idly wondered what his counterpart would say, if – when they returned to their proper places. He was used to the noise Sherlock loved to make in his presence. He didn't think the other Mycroft was.

Somewhere between one screeching concert and the next, he announced, "I said I'm not leaving and I won't. You should know that my word is worth something."

Sherlock glared at him with a ferocity he hadn't seen in this version of his brother until now.

"Do I?" he spat, and Mycroft knew what he was talking about and swallowed.

Sherlock, of course, tried to apologize immediately (when had it come to this, that he used the words "Sherlock" "apologize" and "of course" in the same sentence?), but Mycroft waved him of. Petty feuds would simply minimize their chance of catching Moriarty.

After another twenty minutes of torturing his violin Sherlock admitted quietly, "I don't know if – I don't know if he'll come back. You might be the only brother I've left".

Suddenly, there was a lump in Mycroft's throat, proving again that Moriarty hadn't really known him all that well when he'd called him "The Ice Man".

"I can't stay here" he answered, almost petulantly, and Sherlock sighed.

"I know. Your brother needs you; asking you to stay here would just be selfish".

Mycroft doubted his real brother would agree with the statement, but said nothing.

After what seemed to be a long time – certainly longer than a day – they got ready and left for the exhibition. This time, a limousine was waiting for them; Sherlock had texted Anthea to tell her that he was taking his brother to the exhibition so that she wouldn't worry (apparently in this world she had the right to) and made her send a car which they decided to send away as soon as they arrived at the Gallery.

The driver seemed relieved to find Mycroft well, and he found himself politely answering the man's questions.

He really had to get home soon, he realized. He was changing, becoming the Mycroft people expected him to be, rather than the Mycroft he was. He couldn't allow that.

Despite having seen the exhibition before with Lestrade, Mycroft had to admit that it was interesting; there were several corridors, all of which led to Turner's masterpiece. He could see why Moriarty had decided to steal it. Looking at it, he could almost hear the tones of water rushing into the abyss, feel the drops on his skin, imagine the wild and dangerous beauty of the place...

Sherlock laid a hand on his arm and he shook himself out of his admiration.

"What is it?" he whispered. "Is it..."

Sherlock shook his head and made a head movement to the right.

Mycroft looked in the indicated direction and saw Greg Lestrade, standing in a corner, surveying the room.

Their eyes met and the DI nodded, somewhat annoyed and made his way over to them.

"Just making sure" he said before Mycroft had even had the chance to open his mouth. "This doesn't mean I believe. But it's my job to protect the city."

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "Oh, you remembered?" but thankfully Greg ignored it. He gave another court nod and disappeared into the crowd.

Sherlock concentrated on the painting again, frowning.

"How do you think – "

At this moment, the lights went out. Mycroft should have known; cutting the power was the easiest way to ensure the alarm wouldn't ring out. Thank God he had decided to take a small flashlight with him just in case.

As was to be expected, a slight panic broke out, until Greg spoke loudly enough for all to hear him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please, stay calm. My name is DI Greg Lestrade; I work for Scotland Yard. I'm sure the power will come back any moment".

Mycroft was thankful when the commotion stopped. A panic would have been highly inconvenient.

He managed to grab Sherlock's elbow and hissed, "The painting".

He felt Sherlock nod and took out the small flashlight. They immediately went to the place where the painting hung –

Had hung.

It was empty.

The painting was gone.

Mycroft wasn't prone to cursing, but he almost did when the distant sound of a door closing reached his eyes. He knew Sherlock had heard it too, and the younger Holmes didn't need any prompting.

They turned around and started pushing people out of the way, only guided by the weak beam of the flashlight, trying to get close to the place the noise had come from.

Soon enough, they found a door marked "staff only" and entered without hesitation.

It was then that someone gave Mycroft a punch in the stomach. He dropped his flashlight and staggered back as he heard someone snarl, "This is for the night in prison."

Sebastian Moran, just as he had predicted. That he'd been right didn't give him any comfort, however, when he heard Sherlock struggle next to him, the muffled sounds he made indicating that he had already been gagged.

He wanted to take a swing at Moran – or the place he thought Moran most likely to be, anyhow – but he suddenly felt a sharp pain at the back of his head and everything went black.

When he woke up, the world was spinning around him and he could feel blood trickling down his head. Whoever had knocked him out must have used all his strength.

He was in a dark room; the only source of light was a small lamp standing on a table. Mycroft was sitting on a chair in front of the table, bound and gagged. Another empty chair was standing on the other side of the table.

Despite still feeling dizzy, he turned his head around, ignoring the pain, and looked for Sherlock.

He was in a corner, also bound and gagged to a chair, and he had been knocked out too, judging by the wound on the side of his head; he was awake, however, and looking at Mycroft with worry and fear in his eyes. It was a look he had never seen, nor was likely to see, on his Sherlock's face, and Mycroft wished he could talk, to reassure him that everything –

"Look who's awake!" A voice sang out in the darkness the light of the lamp, and Mycroft forced himself not to tense. He would always recognize this voice.

Jim Moriarty strolled into the light, smiling, clad in a Westwood suit.

"So, Big Brother" he said, freeing Mycroft of the gag, "time to talk".

"What about?" he asked calmly, and Moriarty smirked.

"Now, that's not a very good beginning for a conversation, is it? Especially since you are hardly in a position to make demands".

Mycroft was silent because Moriarty was right. The consulting criminal sat down opposite him and continued, "I have to admit, this has been fun. I've never had someone properly investigating me before. And playing the good guy got old after a while."

His eyes twinkled mischievously and Mycroft uncharacteristically wished his hands were free so he could strangle the man.

"Now, that's not polite, wishing your host dead, is it?" Moriarty said, shaking a finger at Mycroft. Then he grew serious, or as serious as he had ever seen Jim Moriarty.

"Anyway, here is what I want. Tell me about the Choice Portal".

Mycroft hadn't expected that, and his surprise showed on his face despite his efforts. Moriarty laughed.

"I have people everywhere – among the security personal in the Gallery too. You really should have kept your voice down when you told your Inspector friend about how you came from a parallel universe".

Mycroft clamped his mouth shut, and Jim added, "At first, I thought it ridiculous – I figured you'd gone insane because of the shock. But then I thought – the real Mycroft would never have suspected me. He trusted me. I was his little brother's best friend, after all. And I could see how you looked at me, that evening when I came because Sherlock was worried about you. Without any reason."

Mycroft was silent. "Oh, come on!" Moriarty whined. "At least tell me something about me in this universe. I'm soooo curious".

"You're dead to begin with" Mycroft hissed and regretted it in the next moment when he saw a new light in Moriarty's eyes.

The consulting criminal clapped his hands. "That's what I wanted to hear!"

He looked from Mycroft to Sherlock, who were both trying to hide their confusion. He sighed.

"Come on, you are supposed to be intelligent! Think about it!"

Mycroft suddenly suspected what he was going to say next and a shiver ran down his spine. Moriarty grinned.

"Ah, the penny dropped, mmh? Yes, Big Brother – I figure I've done all I can do in this universe. Time to wreak havoc in the next".


	30. Chapter 30

Mycroft stared at the excited consulting criminal, his thoughts racing. He should have anticipated that the only person who'd really believe his story in this universe, except for his brother, was a madman, a madman who was bored and wanted other worlds to play with.

And he might get what he wanted. There might be a chance that Moriarty wouldn't make his way to his world; but Mycroft knew that, if indeed every choice created a parallel universe, there were many, too many worlds the consulting criminal could end up in; too many worlds he could destroy because he was bored.

And it would all be his fault – if he didn't prevent Moriarty from entering the Portal.

Moriarty seemed to read his thoughts – he had always had this ability, he remembered, which was why it had been so difficult to interrogate him – and said, "Now, don't get any ideas. I might decide that one of you is quite enough to get me to the Portal".

Mycroft forced himself not to look at Sherlock, but of course Moriarty knew he had understood the threat.

"So I was right" he announced to no one in particular. "The Big Brother instinct still works, even if this isn't your real little brother. By the way – how does it feel to know you left him behind? To know he could have been a scientist?"

Mycroft didn't answer; Moriarty was simply taunting him, and he wasn't going to allow him the satisfaction of seeing he had thought the same several times since he arrived here.

"Come on, My, you're no fun. Answer me. How does it feel to know you practically destroyed your little brother's life? Then again, in our world, he became the best friend of a sociopath, so maybe you made the right decision after all. But I guess we'll never know".

He clapped his hands and stood up. "Anyway, you and Sherlock are going to take me to the Portal. And don't try to attack me or do something equally dull – I'll have my pistol on your dearest Sherlock the whole time. As soon as you make a wrong move, he dies".

Moriarty beamed and made a signal to someone who'd been standing in the shadows behind Mycroft's chair. He felt his ties being undone and saw the some done to Sherlock. Moriarty held a gun to Sherlock's head, just as he'd said he would.

"Now" he said cheerfully, "shall we go?"

Mycroft had no other choice but to obey. Not only was Moriarty threatening Sherlock, but Moran – of course it had been him who had loosened Mycroft's bonds – and another man were keeping a close eye on the two brothers.

It didn't take a consulting detective to see that Sherlock was panicked. He didn't know what to do, and he knew that Moriarty would kill both him and Mycroft if he tried anything; plus, despite what he had told Mycroft, he wasn't used to these situations. Furthermore, he had trusted Moriarty only a few short days ago; the consulting criminal had made him trust him like – Mycroft had to swallow down his anger – he had, in another world, trusted John.

And, to be honest, Mycroft could imagine very easily that Moriarty would have left Sherlock alone if he'd never shown up. The consulting criminal would have continued arranging crimes, yes, and people would have suffered – but Sherlock would have been safe.

He knew that this was a thought Sherlock wouldn't have welcomed; he knew that it was exactly the type of thought he'd pushed away when he'd told Jim his brother's life story.

He decided not to think about this right now and instead focus on getting him and Sherlock out of the predicament they'd got themselves in.

Reluctantly he told Moriarty the address to the lab – hat least he would know where they were. Right now, he didn't have this advantage. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, or were Moriarty had had them brought; he was simply sure that they weren't in the Gallery anymore. Not even the consulting criminal would risk an employee or lost visitor stumbling over him.

He did, however, catch Sherlock's eyes as he turned around and was glad to see that his brother had fought against his panic and was taking everything in with his usual sharp glance. Together, they might just have a chance against Moriarty.

Moriarty sat between them in the car Moran was driving, still happily pointing a gun at Sherlock.

"I'm so sorry I didn't pay any attention to you until now, Sherly. I'm sorry. That's not how a best friend should act".

Sherlock said nothing.

"Come on! We had fun, didn't we? And you can't deny I was the best friend you could ever have hoped to have – don't take me wrong, but you are a little bit weird".

Sherlock looked at him in a way that told Mycroft he was remembering everything he'd learned about the ex-army doctor who might have changed his life, and shook his head. "What happened to you?"

The question came unexpected to both Mycroft and Moriarty, but it was calmly said, and the elder realized he was trying to make the consulting criminal uncomfortable.

"I never asked" Sherlock continued, his voice growing firmer. "I figured you'd tell me in time, but you never did. So, what happened? People aren't born psychopaths. Did your father beat you? Or your mother? Or both of you? Or did he do something else entirely?"

His tactic was not without its risk, but Mycroft could see it was beginning to work. For the first time, Mycroft saw something like genuine annoyance and – was that – pain? in Moriarty's face.

"You were always annoying, I'm glad this whole game is over, I've had enough" he hissed.

"Oh, so it was your mother then?" Sherlock asked.

In the next moment, Moriarty punched him in the face with his gun and trained it on Mycroft when he made a move to intervene.

"Don't play the hero, My. It's boring. And you don't want to bore me, not when you've become interesting for the first time in years". Then he turned to Sherlock, who was holding his bleeding nose, and cheerfully told him, "If people don't tell their friends something, it's because they don't want them to know. Remember it – it might come in handy one day".

Sherlock didn't answer and instead looked out the window. Mycroft knew his brother; he knew he was trying to figure out how to save them. The problem was, Moriarty knew it as well, judging from the amused look he shot Mycroft.

The consulting criminal didn't speak to them again during the remainder of the journey, being content with humming "Staying Alive" under his breath and tapping the rhythm with his fingers.

At least they only had Moran and Moriarty to contend with now, although Mycroft guessed most people wouldn't see that as good news.

When they arrived at the lab, Moriarty told Sherlock "not to do anything that might endanger your dear brother, because we don't want that, do we?" and the younger Holmes swallowed and nodded.

The security man greeted Sherlock politely and let them in without comment when Sherlock introduced Moriarty and Moran as "colleagues". Mycroft would have to make sure the lab hired better personal if they – after they had managed to get the better of the consulting criminal.

"Sebby, you stay out here and make sure no one interrupts us" Moriarty ordered when they arrived at the room where the Portal was kept, Sherlock leading the way, and the sniper complied. Mycroft suddenly realized that Jim probably didn't trust Moran enough to have him in the room when he tried to go through the Portal. That wasn't surprising though. Moriarty had never trusted anyone.

"How does this work?" Moriarty demanded eagerly a soon as the door had closed behind them.

Sherlock sighed. "Percy repaired the Portal, so it should work... however, we haven't found out yet how it could open a door into another universe to begin with".

"I'm sure you'll figure it out, you have the whole night" Moriarty said confidently.

Mycroft didn't know whether to hope that Sherlock could make it work or not – or if, should Sherlock find out how the Portal worked, he should tell Moriarty the truth or lie. He didn't doubt that the consulting criminal would kill them if they didn't succeed; however, he was rather sure he would kill them before he stopped in the Portal. Just to be on the safe side.

And, of course, if Sherlock made it work –

Moriarty would once again be haunting his world, would make Sherlock's life a living hell again, Sherlock who had already suffered enough. True, John would be there, and Lestrade – and Sherlock had won against Moriarty once before –

Sherlock had won. Maybe he should tell the consulting criminal. It was worth a try, at least.

"Jim" he began calmly, and the happy consulting criminal turned around, indicating that he would listen to him, "Do you know what you are getting yourself into?"

"No, My – that's part of the fun!" Moriarty answered matter-of-factly, and Mycroft shook his head.

"You were defeated once in my universe" he said quietly, "You will be again".

"Why? You think history will repeat itself?" Jim pouted. "Think, Mycroft. This world is different from yours, is it not? For once, you and Sherlock are close. Your DI-friend forsook you at the first opportunity. And I spent years in hiding. Since I am gone in your world, I assume that my dear dead counterpart didn't really try to blend in there. But, whoever "defeated" me, as you so elegantly put it" – and his eyes trailed over to Sherlock, making Mycroft realize that he guessed at least part of the truth – "doesn't even have to know I'm there. Not for a while, at least. And, maybe then, once I'm settled, we can play a game". His eyes glittered.

"You'll have to be your web up again" Mycroft argued, and Moriarty laughed. "Even better! You have no idea how dull it is to have achieved everything – nowadays I simply have to make a call to scare people into submission. In the good old days, before my reputation, I had to threaten and torture people – much more exciting."

Mycroft saw that he wouldn't be able to convince Moriarty to stay – not that he had really held high hopes, but it had been his only plan. The consulting criminal wasn't interested in continuing the conversation and sat down on a table, starting to whistle.

If only he had a weapon. If only he had thought this through, instead of dragging Sherlock into it. If only he had his Sherlock by his side. He would know what to do. Or do something recklessly stupid that would in the end save the day. Either way, they wouldn't stand around helplessly while Moriarty won.

And yet –

They didn't have to stand around hopelessly. There was one thing they could do to prevent Moriarty from crossing over into Mycroft's world. They both knew it, even though they hadn't had a chance to speak since they'd woken up in Moriarty's lair.

If they managed to destroy the Portal, or at least damage it irrevocably –

Moriarty wouldn't be able to get into his world.

And Mycroft wouldn't be able to return.

He wasn't prepared for the pain he felt at the thought; he finally had to admit to himself that the hope of returning to his world was what had kept him going. The thought of going back, of being home. The thought of seeing Sherlock again, and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and even John...

He couldn't allow Moriarty to enter their lives again, though. He couldn't. If that meant he had to sty – if that meant he never got to see them again – so be it.

He only hoped that Sherlock was thinking the same thing and would see that it was inevitable. He looked at his brother, who was avoiding his eyes. And not just because he was afraid Moriarty might do something; there was something like guilt in his posture. So he had already thought about it.

All of a sudden, a shot rang out, and a voice shouted something. More shots followed.

Moriarty stopped whistling and sprang up. He frowned. "What –"

More shots, more shouting.

Sherlock and Mycroft looked at one another; both had recognized the voice.

Against all odds, Lestrade had tried and managed to find them.


	31. Chapter 31

While he triumphed in the thought that Lestrade had found them, even though no one had know they were missing, so Greg had obviously chose to follow them, simply because he had felt it was the right thing to do, Mycroft stayed practical: they had no way of knowing if Greg would win against Moran, or at least if he had called back-up.

But at least Moriarty wasn't paying attention to them right now, and this was their chance to act.

He tackled the consulting criminal, trusting Sherlock to get out of the line of fire. His brother obviously understood and ducked just as Moriarty pressed the trigger.

The bullet buried itself into the wall and Mycroft tried to get the gun out of Moriarty's hands. Sherlock tried to help him, but he really couldn't do much, so instead he sprinted to the door and threw it open.

Mycroft didn't really know what was happening, being occupied with Moriarty, but he heard a few shouts, a few shots and hoped that Sherlock and Greg were alright.

Finally, he managed to wrestle the gun from Moriarty's hand and tried knocking him out; in the next moment, someone dragged him off the consulting criminal who slumped down unconscious.

He caught Sherlock's eyes. The younger Holmes was breathing heavily, holding a gun – presumably Moran's – in his hands.

"Greg?" he asked breathlessly.

"I'm fine, just wondering how to explain this to the Chief Superintendent" the DI answered behind him, and Mycroft turned around to find him holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose.

"Good job with Moran" he said.

Greg shrugged. "It was more luck than anything else. I slipped on the floor and ended up kicking his knee. And then Sherlock showed up." There was a new note of respect in hzis voice and Mycroft hid a smile.

"Where is he?"

"Unconscious and cuffed to radiator in the corridor".

Mycroft could have laughed with relief. Instead, he simply said, "Thank you".

Lestrade waved a dismissive hand while still trying to stop the blood flow from his nose.

"Please. They were hardly subtle when they dragged you both into the car. I saw it from a window and followed."

Mycroft nodded; Moran was an excellent sniper and had, by all accounts, been a good soldier, but he wasn't the most intelligent criminal he'd ever encountered.

No, that honour belonged to the man lying unconsciously a few metres from him.

He walked over and kneeled down.

"Is he – " Sherlock asked, his voice neutral.

Mycroft shook his head. "No. He's breathing".

"And under arrest" Greg announced, "for kidnapping you – at least for you. I guess we'll be able to link a few more crimes to him once he's in custody."

"Just make sure he had absolutely no contact with anyone outside of prison" Mycroft said, remembering how the last trial Moriarty had been on had ended, and Greg nodded.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Mycroft..."

He looked at him. The younger man indicated the Portal with his head. "I think I figured out the settings. All you'll have to do is to concentrate on your memories, your decision to leave me behind... hopefully".

Mycroft nodded and heard Greg sigh behind him. "Really? Still the parallel universe thing?"

"Why do you think we are here? Moriarty wanted to cross dimensions, so to speak."

Greg raised an eyebrow and looked at the still unconscious consulting criminal.

"Well" he finally said, "I'll believe it when I see it".

It was the best he could get, so Mycroft nodded.

"I just wanted to say... Thank you, Greg, for everything".

Greg looked like he didn't know whether to pity or laugh at him, so he settled for shaking his hand with all the dignity he could muster.

Mycroft turned around to Sherlock, once again not knowing what to say. This Sherlock wasn't his brother; but they had lived together, solved crimes together, defeated a consulting criminal together. He swallowed.

Sherlock gave him a half-smile.

"Goodbye it is, then" he said simply, and Mycroft heard Greg move towards Moriarty, obviously trying to give them some privacy.

Sherlock looked on the floor, then back up at Mycroft.

"Thanks" he continued. "For..."

"Ruining your life?" Mycroft asked and they chuckled. Sherlock's eyes softened. "Something like that".

"Do you think your brother is going to reappear once I leave?" Mycroft wanted to know. He couldn't stay here, didn't want to stay here; but he didn't want to leave Sherlock alone either.

"I don't know" the scientist admitted, "but just because I'm not sure I can't steal another man's brother. He needs you".

Mycroft thought the last statement debatable, but didn't say anything. He just smiled. Sherlock smiled back.

"Time to cross dimensions, My" he said and they went to the Portal together. Sherlock made sure that the settings worked one last time and waved at Mycroft to get to the machine.

He laid a hand on the panel and remembered leaving Sherlock behind all those years ago.

The lights on the Portal glowed when he suddenly heard a moan from behind him and turned around, quickly but not quick enough to prevent Moriarty grabbing Sherlock and holding a gun to his head.

He looked over the consulting criminal's shoulder and saw Greg lying on the floor.

"Don't worry" Moriarty said, "He isn't dead. I could have killed him, you know, but I am kind of impressed how he managed to disarm Sebby. So he gets a few extra-minutes. As a token of my appreciation." He pressed the gun right behind Sherlock's temple.

"Now, Mycroft, if you would kindly step away from the Portal."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and read in his eyes that he wanted him to leave; to simply go back to his world and be safe. But he couldn't do that. He stepped away.

Moriarty smiled. "Good decision. Now, what am I going to do with you?"

For one moment Mycroft thought he was going to pull the trigger, but then Jim just laughed.

"Oh, no, I don't really want to kill any of you... But on the other hand I might just have to". He pretended to think about it. "But, you see, if I leave you alive, you might destroy the Portal – and I'd like to be able to return should things not work out. And, of course, poor Sebby would go to prison."

"As if you care about that" Mycroft spit, and Moriarty chuckled. "I suppose you are right. But he has been such a loyal pet..." The consulting criminal looked at Sherlock, then back at Mycroft. "The question is – who should I kill first?"

Mycroft realized he had to make a decision; he realized he had to destroy the Portal. Moriarty would kill them either way, but he wouldn't be able to "wreak havoc", as he had put it, in other worlds.

It wasn't even sure that Moriarty would end up in his world – his choices weren't Mycroft's choices – but God knew what he would do in any universe he happened to find himself in. There were so many possibilities, so many innocents at risk. Destroying the Portal was the only way to stop him.

He would never get home, even if they made it out alive; but it was a price worth paying if it meant saving his brother from Moriarty, as he should have done when he'd had the chance in his world.

He saw the knowledge of what he'd do in Sherlock's eyes and made a leap towards the Portal; Moriarty, surprised, needed a second longer to react than he should have. Sherlock elbowed him in the stomach and grabbed the gun, throwing it away. Mycroft, seeing this, managed barely not to hit the Portal and went for the gun instead, while Sherlock and Moriarty were rolling around on the floor.

He found the gun but saw he wouldn't be able to use it, not as long as Sherlock and Jim were intertwined. He laid the gun on the table and rushed towards them, trying to drag the consulting criminal away from his brother.

Moriarty knew how to fight, although that wasn't a surprise; Sherlock went for his legs and Mycroft for his arms, and finally they managed to pin him on the floor. He caught Sherlock's gaze; he nodded and Mycroft ran to the table and grabbed the gun.

Moriarty had a gush on his temple; the blood ran down his face and must make it hard to see, but he still continued to struggle.

"Sherlock" Mycroft cried, "Out of the way!"

Sherlock managed to free Moriarty's hold on him and jumped away.

The consulting criminal wished the blood out of his eyes and looked at Mycroft, perfectly calm and still smiling.

"What now, Big Brother? We both know you are not going to kill me."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Am I not?"

Moriarty grinned. "You can't honestly expect me to believe you would shoot a man in cold blood. I know you, remember?"

"Oh no you don't."

For the first time, Moriarty's smile faltered.

Mycroft smiled a grim smile and said, "Surprise".

Then he pulled the trigger.

Moriarty slumped down, a bullet in his head. Mycroft turned to look at Sherlock, not knowing what to expect.

The younger Holmes was shaking, and he realized he had probably never seen someone die before; then he took a deep breath and nodded.

"It was the right thing to do, after all you told me about his trial".

"Are you okay?" Mycroft asked, and Sherlock shook his head.

"I will be, though. It's just – " he looked down on Moriarty's body "He used to be my friend".

"I know" Mycroft replied and Sherlock managed a weak smile. He went over to Greg and kneeled down beside him.

"He doesn't seem to have any serious injuries – he should wake up soon. I'm going to call an ambulance as soon as we send you back". He looked up. "Where you really going to destroy the Portal?"

"He would have killed us anyway" Mycroft replied, "and I couldn't let him loose in another dimension, whatever it might have been".

Sherlock got up and hugged him; this time, he hugged back without hesitation.

"You know" Sherlock mumbled, "I think I will miss this. A little. Aside from the constant mortal danger, it has been fun".

"Yes, it has been" Mycroft confirmed because, in some weird way, it was true.

Sherlock stepped back and smiled.

"You'll need to tell them – "

"It's alright, My, I know" and Mycroft admitted to himself that he was going to miss the nickname "I'll tell the police I killed Moriarty in self-defence. And I have an Inspector from Scotland Yard to back up my story. In fact..." he trailed off, looking at Greg.

Mycroft waited until Sherlock's gaze return to him. "In fact" he continued, "I think he needs a friend. And a little help now and then. On a free-lance basis, of course".

"Of course" Mycroft answered; he couldn't help the smile that spread over his face.

"When your brother returns, you'll have some explaining to do".

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm really looking forward to that."

They laughed together one last time, because they were alive, and they had won, and Mycroft could return home; then he stepped to the Portal and put his hand on the panel.

"Goodbye, Sherlock".

"Goodbye, My".

With a last smile, Mycroft closed his eyes and concentrated on the memory of that day long ago, when he had left Sherlock behind. Just as he remembered how he'd told himself not to turn around –

He felt again that he was unable to draw his hand away, and blackness swept over him.


	32. Chapter 32

Sherlock kept working on the Choice Portal, occasionally berating Trevelyan that he should have been more careful with his experiment.

John was at his side, trying to make him rest and eat occasionally, although without much success. The doctor knew why Sherlock was so desperate, of course; despite all his protestations to the contrary, he truly cared about his brother. And John would do everything to help him get him back.

Although John still had trouble believing that Mycroft had been transported into a parallel universe and the Mycroft that was currently living in his house, making polite small talk to Greg and him and asking Sherlock about his day when they came back every evening to check on him, was not the brother Sherlock had grown up with.

After a few talks with this Mycroft, he was ready to reconsider. The elder Holmes had never been so – pleasant, for lack of another word, and it was not only worrying Sherlock, but John too at this point.

Not to mention Greg. John had not known that he and Mycroft had become friends while Sherlock had been gone, but he couldn't deny that it made sense. They had both tried to protect Sherlock, and had both thought they'd failed. And, he admitted to himself, feeling ashamed, he had not been nice to Greg after Sherlock's disappearance; he had shut the door in his face and refused to talk to him. So, naturally, Greg had turned to the only connection he had with Sherlock – Mycroft.

And now his friend didn't recognize him. It must be difficult; John couldn't even imagine Sherlock not recognizing him. The three years without him had been enough; but to think about Sherlock asking him who he was, why he was there...

He helped Greg out as much as he could. Her made tea for both him and Mycroft, talked to the later, made sure the DI could slip out of the house for a few minutes to smoke. He might not want to assist Greg's addiction – not when he had been trying to make Sherlock give it up once and for all for years – but under the present circumstances, he figured he could allow him a few cigarettes.

All their lives were made easier by Mrs. Hudson, who, at the beginning of the second day, could John to hear what was going on and showed up an hour later, claiming she "was the only adult here anyway" and proceeding to take over the kitchen. She brought his violin with her, too, since it "calmed him down". Sherlock tried to make her comfortable in a guest room that hadn't been used for years, which she declined because she preferred to sleep in her own bed; she did come by every day, though, and Sherlock promised that he would try not to shoot at her wall the next time he was bored; she simply pated his arm and said, "Of course, dear". When John tried to tell her what a relief it was not to have to worry about Greg and Mycroft while he was keeping Sherlock company, she waved him off. He still tried to be in the house as often as he could, though.

Greg appreciated what John was doing, even if he neither expected nor wished for any thanks, and told his as often as he could that he was fine, that he should go back to the lab and look after Sherlock.

Sherlock...

That was another matter entirely. Greg at least accepted the situation, spoke about what he was going through (even if only in a few sentences late at night). Sherlock, on the other hand...

He was focused on getting his brother back. He kept himself away from the "other Mycroft", as John had dubbed him in his head; the doctor could see this hurt the elder Holmes, but he didn't know what to do about it. Most of the time, Sherlock was in the lab, working on the Portal, barking orders at Trevelyan, ignoring John, who nonetheless was not far away most of the time, occasionally urging him to have some tea or a snack.

But he didn't speak to anyone, not even John, until the doctor forced him to. He cornered him one night when Sherlock was returning from the lab and simply asked, "How are you?"

Normally, Sherlock would have shrugged the question off, but he saw that his blogger was determined to have an answer, he sighed.

"I'm fine".

"Of course. Your brother is not himself, you work on a machine day and night, and you don't talk to anyone. You are completely fine".

Sherlock managed to half-smile and continued quietly, "I will be once we get him back".

John put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed before retiring.

Sherlock didn't sleep, but this was not surprising. He hadn't slept since Mycroft had been – exchanged for this nicer version. He still hadn't told him about his theory of parallel universes; he would do that once he could send him back and, hopefully, his brother would return.

He knew that John and Greg and Mrs. Hudson were concerned about him; even without John cornering him tonight. But he simply didn't see why he had to talk about what had happened; he would repair the machine, send this Mycroft on his way, and that would be it.

He realized that he was thirsty and tried to remember when he had last had something to drink. He recalled that John had forced a bottle on mineral water on him in the afternoon, but a look on his watch proved that it was past 2am. Knowing that everyone must have retired long ago, he made his way to the kitchen.

He opened the door and hesitated when he found Mycroft making tea.

The elder Holmes turned to look at him and smiled. "You can't sleep then, either? Care for a cuppa?"

"Sure" Sherlock replied before he could stop himself. He really wanted the tea, and he could very well spend half an hour in this Mycroft's company.

They were silent while Mycroft was busy preparing the tea, and Sherlock took the time to observe him. He looked like his brother, except that he seemed to prefer casual wear when at home. But there was something... different about his expressions, his voice. They were so open, friendly, trusting; while his brother had indeed been an "Ice Man" for most of his life, this one let his feelings and thoughts show. It was disquieting.

After he'd put the tea in front of Sherlock, he sat down next to him and asked, "What aren't you telling me?"

"Sorry?" Sherlock answered, confused, and Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I know you, Sherlock. I can tell there is something you are hiding from me".

He should have known. Confused or not, from another universe or not, Mycroft was still one of the most intelligent man on the planet.

Sherlock sighed. He had to tell him the truth. He would have to know eventually anyway.

So he did. Mycroft kept his focus on him, just like the brother he remembered, but bit his lip and frowned occasionally.

After he'd finished, he finally asked, slowly, "And you think you can... send me back?"

"Yes, I believe so" Sherlock replied, slightly taken aback. His brother wouldn't have believed such a story so quickly; but this Mycroft trusted him. "I should be able to make the Portal work".

Mycroft nodded and wanted to know, "And you think your real brother will appear once I leave?"

It was a much more difficult question and certainly would have kept Sherlock awake, even if he'd tried to sleep.

Because, somehow, although he refused to think about it, he had the suspicion that if Mycroft could choose, if he'd be able to figure out what happened and have someone repair the Portal...

He would probably elect to stay where he was. The world this Mycroft came from sounded like everything his brother had ever wanted – friends, a successful brother who lived with him, a more comfortable house...

Sherlock swallowed and was startled out of his thoughts when suddenly a hand grabbed his and squeezed.

He looked up to find Mycroft looking at him with concern in his eyes.

"I'm sure he'll want to come back, Sherlock" he said quietly. "This is his life, and he'll be just as desperate to return to you as I am to see my brother again."

Sherlock didn't know what to say, so he nodded.

Mycroft smiled and squeezed one last time before taking his hand away. They drank the rest of their tea in silence. Mycroft was the first to stand up.

"Time to get to bed. Goodnight".

"Goodnight".

"I suppose I can't tell you to go to bed?"

"You can, but I won't".

They smiled at each other and Mycroft left the kitchen. Sherlock uncharacteristically put the two mugs in the sink and sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

Talking with this Mycroft was – strange, but in a good way, he admitted. They hadn't really talked like this since Sherlock had been eleven.

And yet –

He still preferred his Mycroft, the one he knew. He simply wasn't the right Sherlock for the other Mycroft, he had seen too much, done too much.

He spent the rest of the night in his room, pacing up and down and left for the lab the next morning before anyone else was awake.

John found him and Trevelyan working on the Portal two hours later.

"You could at least tell us when you leave, you know" he said, although he didn't sound angry, and Sherlock nodded absently.

Then, out of the blue he announced, "I had tea with Mycroft yesterday".

"He told me. Or, rather, he told Greg, who texted me while I was on my way here." John fell silent, patiently waiting for Sherlock to elaborate.

Sherlock answered eventually, frowning at the Portal, telling Trevelyan to get something so he and John could talk in peace.

"I told him the truth".

"I heard. Why?"

"Because he asked". John laughed and Sherlock looked up. "Sherlock, that's hardly a reason for you".

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know. He was just so – understanding".

Probably like Mycroft before he'd left him, John decided. Before all the resentments and mistrust had come between them. He nodded, to make Sherlock see that he understood and the consulting detective gave a half-smile before he resumed working on the Portal. After a few minutes, he threw his hands up in frustration.

"I'm missing something, I know it! It should work, but for some reason it doesn't do anything..."

"What about the settings?" John suggested, not because he thought he might be right, but because he figured it would do Sherlock good to be distracted for a moment.

Sherlock stared at him, then back at the Portal. "Settings..." he mumbled.

"Yes. I mean, don't machines like that have settings?"

Suddenly, Sherlock clapped his hands and a grin appeared on his face. "John, you are indeed a conductor of light! Of course! I should have checked the settings ages ago, but – "

"There's always something" John finished and they smiled at one another.

When Trevelyan returned, Sherlock instructed him to put the settings just like they had been when Mycroft had tried out the machine, and soon enough the lights blinked, indicating that the Portal worked again.

John thought Trevelyan might faint with relief, and he couldn't bale him. If there was one thing he didn't want to encounter, it was the wrath of a Holmes.

He sent Greg a text, telling him to get Mycroft to the lab immediately, while Sherlock went through everything once again before asking or rather ordering Trevelyan to leave because "they could very well do without him".

John decided not to scold him this time. There were more important matters at hand.

When Greg told Mycroft, the elder Holmes was delighted.

They sent Mrs. Hudson home, promising to call, took Greg's car and drove to the lab, Mycroft only speaking once.

"Greg..."

"Yes?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

"I hope he realizes what a good friend he has in you. I hope both of them do".

Greg swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

"Maybe you exist in my world too" Mycroft continued.

Greg laughed. "I bet this is going to an interesting conversation". Mycroft joined in his laughter and they spent the rest of the way in a companionable silence.

When they arrived, Sherlock and John were waiting for them.

"You think this is going to work?" Greg asked, eyeing the machine suspiciously, and Sherlock nodded, although not with as much conviction as he would have liked; still, the DI would take what he could get.

It was good enough for Mycroft apparently, who turned to John. "Goodbye, John. It was a pleasure to meet you."

"Goodbye, Mycroft" John said simply but politely, and he turned to Greg, smiling slightly.

"Goodbye, Greg. Thanks for everything".

Greg nodded and shook his head. "See you" he joked, and Mycroft chuckled.

Sherlock and John looked slightly confused, but didn't ask.

Greg caught John's eyes. They understood one another and left them alone, both claiming to "need a breath of fresh air".

Mycroft looked at Sherlock after the door had closed and smiled. "I like your friends".

Sherlock didn't know what to answer, but didn't have to as Mycroft continued, "Sherlock... can I ask you a favour?"

"Of course" he replied, wondering what Mycroft could want.

"Speak to your brother. I'm sure he wants to make up."

Sherlock doubted that, and it must have shown on his face, because he added, "Trust me. I can imagine many things, but not that he doesn't care about you".

Sherlock's face softened against his will. He cared about Mycroft, he had to admit – and it was possible, considering the surveillance and kidnappings, that his brother cared to.

"Alright" he said. "I will".

Mycroft hugged him and Sherlock, surprised, hugged him back.

Mycroft pulled back first and said, "Thank you. For everything".

Sherlock nodded, trying to understand why there was a lump in his throat all of a sudden.

"Goodbye, Mycroft" he answered, finally, the elder Holmes understanding everything he couldn't say.

He smiled and answered softly "Goodbye" before putting his hand on the panel and closing his eyes, remembering taking Sherlock with him.

Despite having expected it, seeing his brother collapse was not easy. Sherlock ran to him as soon as it happened, and heard the door open behind him. Naturally, John and Greg had only stood in the corridor.

John quickly checked the unconscious British Government before announcing "He should be fine".

"Do you think it worked?" Greg asked, and Sherlock shrugged. They would know when Mycroft woke up.

Mycroft opened his eyes; the first person he saw was Sherlock. He blinked, trying to will himself to move, when a hand was put on his shoulder and a voice told him to "keep still for a few more moments".

John.

He could have cried with relief.

He could see the doctor, now, and Greg's anxious face over his shoulder.

He managed a smile.

"Sherlock" he croaked out, "John, Greg".

Sherlock couldn't help the grin that spread over his face. Mycroft had recognized Greg and John, he could tell.

Still, he had to ask.

"Mycroft, when I was eleven – "

"I left you behind".

"Oh, thank God" John breathed.

They helped Mycroft to get up; he demanded to go home, and John saw no problems with it. He and Greg, however, decided to go to a pub; they figured the brothers needed some time alone. Mycroft told them to "take care" as they left with much more feeling than John had ever heard from him, and Greg promised to call the next day.

Sherlock and Mycroft said nothing until they were sitting in the living room – his living room, thank God – and both of them had a brandy before them.

Then, Sherlock asked, almost gently, "Where were you?"

And Mycroft told him everything.

At the end, Sherlock said, slowly, "You killed Moriarty".

Mycroft nodded.

Sherlock smirked. "Now that's something I would have liked to see".

"Your counterpart didn't"

"My counterpart didn't know you".

There was nothing Mycroft could say to that, so he didn't.

Then, Sherlock added, "And – I didn't know yours, either. I – It's good to have you back. Resentments and all. And don't make me say that again."

Mycroft laughed, he couldn't help it, and Sherlock joined in.

Then, the elder Holmes said, "Sherlock, I'm – sorry. For everything."

He didn't want to say "leaving you behind" and "Betraying you to Moriarty" but he would have if he had to.

He didn't, because Sherlock looked at him and saw that he was sincere, and it was enough. So he simply answered "I know" and fell silent for a few moments before adding, "Maybe it was for the best. Without you leaving me – I wouldn't have met John. Or Mrs. Hudson. Or Greg".

Mycroft had thought the same thing, so he said nothing, instead hesitantly putting his hand over Sherlock's and squeezing. The consulting detective's eyes widened for a moment, then he squeezed back.

"So where does this leave us?" Mycroft finally wondered aloud, and Sherlock immediately replied, "A fresh start".

Mycroft liked the sound of that. He suspected their counterparts had had quite a tearful reunion, and the other Mycroft was now trying to comprehend everything that happened in his absence, but this, just this, was more than enough for them.

They didn't talk much after that, eventually retiring.

But, a short time later, just as Mycroft was lying awake and wondering if this change, this wonderful change was going to last and if it meant they would suddenly be able to talk to one another and, perhaps, become as close as they had been when they were children, Sherlock started to play his violin.

Mycroft smiled and allowed himself to drift off to the comforting sounds, knowing that it would last, and that they had all the time in the world to right things between them.

He was thankful for Trevelyan's experiment after all.

True, it would take time, and now and then they would still be annoyed and angry and Sherlock would insult his weight and he would slip back into his "Ice Man" persona.

But they had a chance and all the time they needed.

And, as he had already noted, that was quite enough.


End file.
